


occupational hazards

by veterization



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-07 08:37:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 129,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11055321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veterization/pseuds/veterization
Summary: Stiles' work life is pretty great, from the nice cubicle he sits in, the friends he gets to have as coworkers, and all the free snacks he gets to eat during meetings. And then financial consultant Peter Hale shows up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can hardly believe it's taken me this long, but HERE IT IS. The long-teased office AU I've been working on for ages. IT HAS BEGUN.
> 
> I came up with this idea right around last fall, during which I bounced ideas around with my sister who told me that it reminded her a lot of Parks and Recreation. Needless to say, I had never seen Parks and Recreation, and then took a several month long hiatus from writing this story to watch the whole show. NO REGRETS. (For the record, the inspiration from this story actually came from one of my favorite Hallmark movies, Love at the Thanksgiving Day Parade). So this is essentially Steter does Ben & Leslie, except that there is a lot more snark, arguing, and sexually-charged feuding. (Oh, and everybody's human).
> 
> So here's the good news: as per usual, I have practically this entire story done and written save for a few tiny edits and missing scenes here and there. I plan on updating on a weekly basis, and that leads us straight to the bad news: I'm going on vacation starting tomorrow and will be gone for two weeks without wifi, so chapter two will come completely out of schedule from what I'm intending for the rest of the story. So all y'all get to stew in chapter one for a while. SORRY.
> 
> LET THE JOURNEY BEGIN!

Stiles starts his day off by being horribly late to work.

It's not a great beginning to an already shitty morning, which was full of freezer-burned waffles, a dead bulb over the mirror in the bathroom, and an almost stalling car that needed six revs of the key before the battery jumpstarted to life. It also doesn't help that it's Tuesday, which means that it's his day to go get coffee, and if he bails, this'll be the second time he shows up to the office empty-handed because he couldn't get his shit together. And quite frankly, Isaac is never exactly in a shining mood when Stiles arrives caffeine-less.

"One latte, one nonfat caramel macchiato, and one double espresso. Actually, you know what?" Stiles taps his finger on the counter. "Make that a triple." 

He fiddles around for a few crumpled bills in his wallet while the barista whips around getting his order ready, and even though she's trying her best, Stiles wishes she would move just a teensy bit faster. He can't be late today. Mr. Finstock has made it very clear for weeks now that today is that announcement he's been hinting around for a while, and that anybody who isn't showing up might as well just send in their resignations from home. Stiles' feet roll back and forth against the floor, waiting for the coffee machines to finish whirring out the topping on Scott's macchiato. 

"Come on, come on," Stiles mutters to himself, prying the lid off his drink once they're all handed to him.

He stirs in a few packets of sugar into his espresso with the urgency of a whirlpool spiraling its way through his cup, sneaking another glimpse at his wristwatch. _Fuck_ , he has to go.

He dumps the ten stirring sticks he grabbed in a frenzy into the garbage and recaps his cup, and just as he's turning around to amble out the door with all the cups jammed under his chin, he runs smack into someone chest-first. Someone who just so happens to be the curse that's been following him around all morning, because of course they're carrying hot coffee, and of course they spill it on him.

"Hoooooly shit!" Stiles cries out as scalding, scorchingly hot coffee splatters onto his front and soaks through his shirt. "Oh my God, I'm dying."

He looks up, expecting to see a mortified, apologetic face that's already reaching for napkins to dab Stiles dry and beg him not to press charges, but instead he gets an unimpressed look and pursed lips from some asshole in a Burberry suit.

"Wonderful," said asshole says, smacking his lips. "I was looking forward to drinking that." 

"Uh, _what?_ " This is a joke, isn't it? There are still some people left in America with basic manners, right? Stiles is not going to want to end the day a murder suspect in a mass homicide case because his faith in humanity has been ruined? "Why the hell didn't you keep your lid on your coffee, jackass?"

"It was a cappuccino," he corrects. "And you should've been watching where you were going."

"Are you kidding me right now?" Stiles looks down at the sorry mess he's become, from the sticky foam residue on his collar to the gigantic brown stain that's completely ruined his shirt and successfully makes him look like a toddler who's been playing in the mud. "How is this my fault? I should charge you for dry cleaning. I have to go to work looking like I don't know how to eat without a bib! I have a _meeting_!"

The cappuccino-drinking asshole huffs. "Sure. I'll take care of your dry cleaning bill the second you pay for my refund."

He taps the side of his now empty cup. Stiles' chest might be blistering up like he's just bathed in volcanic lava and yet somehow, _somehow_ , the universe has still decided to grace him with people who think he owes them three dollars plus tax for putting the cherry on his disaster of a morning.

"Go to hell, you bastard," Stiles seethes, refusing to waste more time on this lovely part of this day.

"I will if they serve cappuccinos," he calls after Stiles as he hurries out the door, apparently the kind of dicknose who always has to have the last word, and if Stiles wasn't already so grievously late, he would turn right back around and make a rude comment about how wearing a two thousand dollar brand-name blazer doesn't and won't make you look like a GQ model.

He spends the next ten minutes driving to work while he tries to mop the cappuccino out of his shirt with the spare napkins that've fallen out of fast food bags and landed in the foot room, a tactic which seems to spread the mess more than it does anything else, all the while keeping half an eye on the street and the traffic. He’s going to show up to this meeting looking like no one ever taught him how to properly drink beverages, which half his coworkers probably think anyway, but they don’t need _proof_.

He pulls into the parking lot with hardly any time to spare, sprinting inside and nearly tripping over his own shoelaces. Of all days, why today? Finstock made it very clear to everybody for days now that everybody was expected to be on time for this meeting, no questions asked, and if Stiles wasn't currently running through the worst streak of bad luck he's had since prom night, he probably _would_ have been on time. Would Finstock believe him if Stiles tries to claim the old car-broke-down-on-the-freeway story again? Exactly how many times in a year can he get away with that lie?

He balances the cups in his grip as he runs to the elevator, jamming the button for the third floor and checking his wristwatch. He's on a razor-thin fence as far as being late goes, and he all but breaks into a sprint as the elevator doors open again.

He finds Scott and Isaac in the hallway, very nearly barreling into them as well and continuing the theme of spilling beverages every which way. He screeches to a halt just in time.

"Woah. What happened to you?" Isaac asks when he sees him.

"Everything," Stiles grumbles, stuffing Scott and Isaac’s drinks into their respective hands. Isaac has the gall to frown at his.

"The side's all wet. The cup’s gonna get soggy."

"How terrible," Stiles deadpans. "Thankfully, I absorbed most of it myself."

He straightens out his wet shirt, the feel of the damp fabric harkening him back to those days in elementary school when throwing apple sauce at each other during lunch seemed like a good idea and he got to spend the rest of his day moist and sticky. He pulls the shirt out of his pants, trying to billow it dry.

"I can ask to see if anyone has an extra shirt in their desk?" Scott offers.

"We don't have time," Stiles says, checking his watch again. "Finstock's meeting is starting in three minutes."

“Shit,” Scott says. “Let's go.”

They hustle to the meeting, Stiles doing his best to dab the stain away with his palm, completely unsuccessfully, but doing his best anyway. He tries to file in the room as nonchalantly as possible with Isaac shielding him from view, but Finstock seems to X-ray through Isaac no problem, his hand shooting out to grab Stiles by the shoulder and stop him in his tracks.

"Stilinski," he says, gaze traveling down to the completely unavoidable stain on his front. "Just to be clear, this is not casual Friday. Hell, it isn't even wear-your-food-on-your-clothes day either. We all grew out of that one in first grade."

"Copy that, sir," Stiles says, a warmth taking hostage of his cheeks as he shuffles his way into a chair on the far, far end of the table.

He sits down and tries not to look anybody straight in the eye, especially Jackson, who’s giving him the derisive once-over of a man who would probably rather be seen dead than in an unpressed suit and is currently judging Stiles like a rich kid watching a peasant boy walk around in rags. Stiles ignores him and tucks his shirt back into his pants to try and reclaim some sense of professionalism.

"All right," Finstock says, smacking his hands onto the table. "I'm sure it's no secret by now that we've been cutting corners around here lately. All of you filing complaints in the complaint box certainly seem to be noticing that our paper is—well. It's not as glossy anymore."

"Are we getting laid off?" Danny asks.

"No. But we are taking action.” Finstock claps his hands together, grinning. “So. Corporate has sent us some hoity-toity finance guy to solve all our problems, and he’ll be working for us for the next few weeks. Possibly months. We’ll see just how good he is. Or how bad we are.”

“Great,” Stiles mumbles under his breath, because of course they need a bigwig finance jockey to come in here and straighten them out like they're bad catholic children. Of course this is happening.

“Point is, we need the help and so if you feel like keeping your jobs, you'll give the man what he needs when he needs it,” Finstock says. “His name is—hold on.” He shuffles some papers around. “There we go. It gives me a great thrill to introduce our savior, Mr. Peter Hale.” Finstock gestures to the door, at which point a well-groomed suited-up businessman—

"Fuck!" Stiles says.

It draws everybody’s attention over to him, including Peter Hale, which is the complete opposite of what he wanted. They meet eyes, Peter’s brow momentarily knitting together like he’s _amused_ at life’s little coincidences, a sharp contrast to Stiles’ mortification, and Stiles immediately wants to crawl under the table and suck the cappuccino out of his shirt where no one can see him.

Finstock clears his throat, reminding Stiles that he probably should cut the cursing at the office down to a healthy minimum. “Something you’d like to say, Stilinski?”

“Uh, no.” Stiles straightens up in his chair. “Sorry.”

“As I was saying before that colorful explosion of language,” Finstock continues, shooting one last glare Stiles’ way before moving on. “Peter is the newest member of our team and will be running our numbers hard—and hopefully you all too—to see where we can start cutting back, and ideally by the time he leaves us, the thick glossy paper will be back.”

Honestly, what kind of fucking cosmic joke is this? Stiles had perfectly civil interactions with at least five strangers today, and yet somehow, _somehow_ , the one who he wanted to smother with his car seat this morning is the one who he gets to encounter again. And will again. And for god knows how long because they now share office space. Stiles slides down in his seat and covers his eyes, 

“He’ll be taking over Mr. Harris’ old office, available all day, and if he needs your help on something, you all better cooperate. Is that clear? Lahey—I’m talking to you.”

Stiles catches Isaac’s eye as he looks over his shoulder for a second, and yeah, Stiles is thinking exactly the same thing. Are they all seriously about to become assistants to this asshole? And they don't even know the half of it. Nobody here has any clue that this guy is the kind of shithead who spills coffee on people and doesn't apologize.

“He'll be switching some things up in the office, consulting us on our spending habits, chatting with all of us, seeing what we can harmlessly chop away to make us more moolah,” Finstock says, clapping his hands together. Stiles doesn't think there's any conceivable way to _harmlessly chop away_. The words just don't go together. “And we’re paying him to do all this, so just in case I need to say it twice, _give the man what he needs_.”

He stares them all down, then opens the floor up to Peter, who steps up to the head of the table.

“Lovely to meet you all,” Peter says, voice smooth and just _terrible_. Stiles didn’t know he could hate this guy more, but he already does. “We’ll be working together fairly closely in the upcoming future, so I’m sure we’ll all get well acquainted.”

“We’ll all be chummy as clams when this is over,” Finstock says, clapping his hand onto Peter’s shoulder. Stiles feed like he's watching Umbridge take over Hogwarts.

“And just to be clear, this isn’t a hostile takeover of your amenities,” Peter says. “We’ll just be… moving some things around. Saving money in the corners where no one’s bothered to look.”

That sounds horribly like a sugar-coated way of saying that half of their jobs will have expired at the end of his visit, and the remaining employees can kiss their Christmas bonus goodbye. Stiles isn't all that familiar with finance consulting, but he's pretty sure money is very rarely hiding in unseen corners. Chances are, it'll be painfully pried out of all of their paychecks.

“I’ll want to chat with all of you today, just to see what your responsibilities are, where you’re at. Some quick one-on-one time.”

He looks directly at Stiles and Stiles, without meaning to, promptly looks away. If this was an intimidation test, he's just failed.

“I'll leave it at that for now. Unless any of you have questions, I'd like to get started.”

It seems like the room is buzzing with plenty of questions, but nobody feels like bringing any of them up, most likely because they'll be immediately answered with a quick, diplomatic reply and that will be that. It's like they're all a class waiting to be dismissed, which is flashing Stiles back to high school, which he'd really prefer to keep in the rear view mirror.

Everybody files out of the room a little more stiffly than how they entered, and the second they get out of hearing range of the meeting room, Stiles is yanking Scott close and hissing in his ear.

“Listen,” Stiles says, pulling on Scott’s elbow. “I know that guy.”

“Wait, who? The finance guy?”

“ _Yes_.” Stiles points to the proof: his mangled shirt. “He’s the one who spilled his cappuccino on me this morning. The guy is a complete asshat.”

“Really?”

“Mr. Stilinski,” Peter’s voice ripples out over the cubicles. “Why don’t we start with you?”

God, _why_? Why couldn’t he have been last, so by the time it would’ve been his turn, he would’ve been long gone because of a sick grandmother or a towing incident or his apartment bursting into flames that needed his firefighting attention? He has the sneaking suspicion that today is not his day, and if this dickhead really is working with the department for the next few months, it might not be his year either.

He draws in a deep breath he doesn’t plan on letting out until this little tête-à-tête is over, exchanges one dark look with Scott, and heads for Peter’s office, where he’s waiting in the doorway with an air of condescension that reaches levels of suffocation when his eyes flicker down to Stiles’ ruined shirt.

“Come on in,” Peter’s says, closing the door behind them and settling in behind a large, officious desk that Stiles already knows is going to make him feel like he’s in the principal’s office.

“Look,” Stiles says as he sits down. “You and I didn’t exactly get off to the best start.”

“You mean this morning?” Peter smiles. “It’s all right. You can reimburse me by getting me that cappuccino tomorrow. No hard feelings.”

Wait, what?

“ _What?_ ” Why is it that every time this guy opens his mouth, Stiles wishes he had a ceramic vase in hand and a dry wall to hurl it against nearby? “Yes, hard feelings. _Way_ hard feelings. Look at me!”

He gestures to his front, and if he was slightly less professional, he would yank his shirt off and also show off his presumably blistering skin. Peter looks at it, frowns, and says, “About that. Are your superiors really comfortable with you showing up to work looking this… bedraggled?”

“I was only bedraggled because some assh—” Stiles stops himself, realizing that the path he’s winding himself down right now probably ends with him standing on the curb with a severance check and a box full of his desk’s things. “Never mind.”

He expects a look thrown in his direction that makes it very clear that Peter knew where that sentence was headed, but instead, Peter's smiling, like Stiles is some tiny, juvenile little boy who Peter's indulging. Stiles draws his hands into fists and considers sitting on them.

"Let's talk about some of the decisions you've helped the company make," Peter says, pulling a folder out of a drawer that apparently has every move Stiles has ever made inside this building documented. "Your position—you run the social media accounts?"

"Yeah.”

“And your degree qualifies you for marketing and advertising work?”

“Yup.”

Peter turns a page over in the folder. “Mmhm.”

Stiles could strangle him for that nonchalant _mmhm_. That’s the kind of noise people make when they’re not telling you the truth, which in this case is probably equivalent to _I’m unimpressed with your resume and your work and your supposed worth to this company_.

“I see that you’ve been pushing for the company to keep the annual picnic,” Peter says, and his brow is furrowed, which clearly means Stiles isn’t about to be praised for that. “Why is that?”

“Uh, why not?” Stiles says. “It’s fun. It lets everyone go outside and breathe fresh air. It brings up morale.”

“Do you have proof of that?”

“That it brings up morale?” Stiles asks, and Peter nods. “What, I’m supposed to produce hard numbers regarding people’s happiness?”

Peter’s expectantly raised eyebrows tell Stiles all he needs to know.

"That's not possible," Stiles says flatly.

"Without substantial evidence that it's beneficial to the company, it's really just a money drain."

"It's _fun_ ," Stiles says again. Dear lord, does this guy not understand the meaning of that word? "It gets all of us out of our dark cubicles and into the sun where we can mingle and seek human warmth."

“It’s not a company’s responsibility to cheer up their employees,” Peter says. “That’s what off-time is for.”

“Are you serious?”

Peter gives him a look that makes it clear that yes, he’s serious, and really, Stiles should’ve seen that coming. Of course this asshole is serious. Of course he doesn’t see any merit in having a good time with your coworkers once in a blue moon to lighten the oppressive workforce mood.

“That picnic is a time waster, and it’s expensive for the company,” Peter says. He’s still flipping through Stiles’ file. Stiles didn’t even know his file was that large, and he’s a little frightened now as to what’s in it.

“It’s _fun_ ,” Stiles persists. Fuck, he never cared _that_ much about the damn picnic, but now that Peter’s being a complete asshole about it, he’s digging his claws into it and not intending to let it go without a fight. “I like it. Everybody likes it. How much could it possibly cost to throw a few hot dogs on a plastic table and let people mingle?” 

"As much as I'd love to cater to your every whim," Peter says. Some people at least _try_ to hide their condescension when they speak; Peter is clearly not one of these people. Stiles grabs the armrests harder. "It's people like you who expect your workplace to entertain and pamper you that have driven this company into the red."

"I—what?"

"Changes are going to be made here, Mr. Stilinski," Peter says. "This isn't your home, it's your workplace, and your workplace is not your friend. Your workplace is a company with a bottom line. If you can't handle that, you can feel free to find another job."

Wait a second, they were talking about picnics just a moment ago, how is this suddenly about Stiles' impending unemployment status? He doesn't deserve this; he's still sitting here in a sticky shirt covered in coffee, for god's sake.

"You're—you're just the finance guy," Stiles says. "You can't fire me."

"I'm not trying to fire you, Mr. Stilinski, I'm giving you options."

"Options."

"Yes. You can either adapt to the change I'm here to implement, or you can leave. There is no option where you sit and complain and Santa Claus appears to make it all better again."

Is it being implied that Stiles still believes in Santa? He doesn't, for the record, but he doesn’t appreciate the insinuation one bit. He grinds his teeth together and tries to find the mature, responsible response to say out loud instead of the honest, potty-mouth answer he wants to say.

“It feels a bit like you’re threatening me, if I’m being honest, Mr. Hale,” Stiles says, and makes sure to wrap _Mr. Hale_ in as much acid as possible.

“Oh, not at all,” Peter says. “I’m just letting you know that change is coming your way.”

Still sounds like a threat. Still sounds like there's going to be a body bag sitting on the hood of Stiles’ car tonight as a wordless warning. Is this some kind of intimidation game? Trying to see just what Stiles’ limits are, how he responds to authority, how easily he backs away?

“Change,” Stiles repeats slowly. “As in, termination. Correct?”

Peter shrugs like jobs are easy come, easy go. “Doesn't have to be. Although if there are unnecessary additions here it'll only make sense to remove them.”

“Unnecessary additions?” Stiles repeats. “You do realize these are people here, right? That we’re not disposable robots? Not—not that little packet of parmesan cheese that comes with pizza delivery that nobody needs? Real people with real jobs.”

“No company is a charity, Mr. Stilinski. People have to earn their jobs. If they're not being an asset, they aren't earning it.”

Consultant, Stiles reminds himself. This guy is just a consultant, not a militant, authoritative, belligerent dictator who chooses who gets sent packing and who gets to keep earning an income. Just a consultant. He clearly thinks he's much, much more, his ego probably on par with an archaic emperor, but he's just a consultant.

He squeezes the armrests again. “Can I go back to work anytime soon?” he asks. “I can't very well make much money for this place if I'm sitting around wasting time gabbing with you.”

Peter fixes him with a long, searching look, like he's in the process of figuring Stiles out and only needs a quick autopsy to confirm his suspicions about his personality. Stiles holds eye contact even though he desperately wants to look away, and then walk away while he's at it.

“Not great with authority, are you, Mr. Stilinski?” Peter asks, sounding like every single teacher Stiles hated in high school. With just a hint of amusement, which takes his already pedantic words and turns them infinitely more condescending.

Stiles grits his teeth. He refuses to answer.

“Of course you can go back to your desk,” Peter eventually says, voice smooth as ever, smooth like a politician, and Stiles wants to strangle him. “I'm glad we got this chance to chat. I'm sure it won't be the last time.”

Please let it be. Oh, please let it be. Literally nothing would be even remotely tarnished in Stiles’ life if Peter fell off a cliff tomorrow. 

“Sure,” he says, not bothering to hide his irritation. He gets up, pushing the chair aside. “It's been great.”

He leaves Peter’s office, making sure to slam the door shut behind himself with an unnecessary amount of vigor. It would've been much more satisfying if Peter's fingers or legs or neck were caught in between, but if this guy is going to be sticking around for a while, Stiles supposes there's time for that.

\--

Stiles does not exactly have the most complicated job in the world.

Considering his salary, it's not bad. He sits around in a cubicle, complains about how gray the walls are, tunes out the sound of endless typing, and drums up ways to work social media to engage customers and hype up advertisement for the company. In its own way, it keeps him creative in a way that's slightly more satisfying than his doodling that he tends to do when no one's around. It's fun, trying to compose a tweet that's checking the boxes of memorable, relatable, and professional all at once, and it's enjoyably challenging trying to Instagram pictures that will actually interest their clientele.

The best part is that he's good at what he does, and he works with friendly people, and he gets to see his best friends a few cubicles away whenever he wants during the day, and that makes it all a pretty sweet gig.

At least, it used to be.

The point is that Stiles can find better ways to spend his time than do every little thing Peter asks him to do—and fuck, does he ask a lot. It's like he was demoted to secretary but nobody bothered telling him when it happened, and here he is pulling up files and emailing statements and finding budget reports from the start of the century for Peter like some kind of sycophantic intern. Finstock’s words— _give the man what he needs when he needs it_ —echo in his head each time he gets another demand sent his way.

The last straw comes on Friday morning.

He’s already having a tough week. It started with someone throwing hot cappuccino on him and kept snowballing with increasingly bad news and now it ends with this, with Stiles standing by the coffeemaker being unable to locate the hazelnut creamer. It’s not where it usually is, right next to the vanilla creamer and on the left of the sugar packets, and instead, there is a big, empty, suspicious spot.

He knows who’s responsible for this. _Of course_ he knows.

He stomps down the hallway and doesn’t stop until he’s in front of Peter’s office, pounding on the door and letting himself in after he feels that Peter’s been properly warned of his impending wrath. He approaches the desk, where behind it, Peter is sitting in a cool blue tie that Stiles wants to strangle him with.

“Where,” he says, “is the hazelnut creamer?”

“Budget cutbacks,” Peter says, and so nonchalantly, too, the bastard. “Besides, no one even likes hazelnut. Vanilla is clearly the superior flavor.”

“I like the hazelnut,” Stiles says.

"I'm sure you can do without the taste of cyanide in your morning caffeine," Peter says. "Use the vanilla."

"I don't like the vanilla," Stiles says between his teeth. "I like the _hazelnut_."

"Then perhaps consider purchasing some for your own convenience," Peter suggests, leaning back in his desk chair. He looks so pleased, like his idea isn't absolutely ridiculous, and Stiles wants to—he could just—

He could start a petition, a hazelnut creamer petition, put it on a clipboard and circulate it through the whole department, but that might be bordering on weird and pathetic and as the clear mark of a sore loser. But fuck, he likes the hazelnut creamer. Correction, _liked_. That joy has been robbed from him now.

"You just have to ruin everything, right?" Stiles asks, seething, and considers for a brief, juvenile moment, swiping that fancy crystal paperweight off Peter's desk and dropping it on the floor like a misbehaving cat.

"I'm actually improving things," Peter says, like it's a fact. "For the company, at least. Which is my goal here. Not sure if you're aware, but I wasn't hired to make the universe revolve around you, Stiles."

"You're doing this just to piss me off."

"Again—"

"No, no, this isn't about the universe and who it revolves around,” Stiles grumbles, “it's about you and me and how you're purposefully trying to spite me for no good reason!"

“Mr. Stilinski,” Peter says, and there comes that smooth, professional voice again that makes Stiles feel like he’s a second grader being reprimanded by the teacher. “As flattering as it is that you think your unhappiness is a priority for me, I have absolutely nothing against you.”

Lies, lies, _all so many lies_. “No, you do, and I bet this is about the damn cappuccino,” Stiles says. “And you know what, I’m not reimbursing you, you—” He reels himself in right before a particularly foul-mouthed word crawls its way out of his mouth and refuses to be stuffed back in. “I'm not getting you a new cappuccino that you can throw on me. I’m not sucking up to you.”

He stalks away at that, Peter’s eyes—widened ever-so-slightly with what looks like intrigue—burning into Stiles’ brain as he yanks the door open and slams it on his way out. It isn't until he's back in his desk chair and seething like a recently exploded geyser that he realizes what he's just done and said.

Dear god. He is so fired.

\--

"—no, no, dad, I'm not quitting," Stiles says, balancing his cell phone between his ear and his shoulder while he tries to rip open a bag of Doritos in his kitchen. "I'm just venting. I'm annoyed and this week dragged on for an eternity and I just need to complain a bit."

“What’s this guy doing that’s so annoying?” his dad asks him.

“What is he _not_ doing?” Stiles mutters. “It’s like he has some weird, personal vendetta against me. He doesn’t even _know_ me.”

“Well, did you do something to him?”

“No!” Stiles says, still tugging uselessly on that damn bag of chips. “Okay, fine, so maybe we clashed a little in a coffeeshop. But that was before I knew he was working at the company _and_ he’s the one who threw his drink on me, so I don’t think he has a right to be upset about that!” The bag of Doritos suddenly bursts open, sending chips flying. “Fuck!”

“Stiles, what’s going on?” the sheriff says. “Is this guy really riling you up that much?”

_Yes_. “No, I just—I just created a Dorito tornado on accident,” Stiles says, rummaging around in the cupboard under the sink for his dustpan. Goddammit, that’s pretty much half the bag on the kitchen floor now. “And I might be a little high-strung from work.”

“Stiles, you should talk to the guy. Tell him what’s going on if he’s bothering you that much.”

Yeah, that would go splendidly. Not to mention that all this is assuming that Peter hasn’t already reported Stiles’ _extreme_ lack of professionalism during that little hissy fit he exploded with in his office and gotten him terminated. There’s about a fifty-fifty chance that he’ll come to work on Monday and all his stuff will be boxed up on his desk, but he decides to not divulge that little bit of information to his dad.

He probably shouldn't have mentioned any of this to him anyway, and certainly not now, when he's coming fresh off of work and is still bubbling over with leftover frustration from the day. He used to come home slightly exhausted and ready to unwind and play video games. Nowadays he comes home wanting to scream into a pillow and throttle something and count backwards from a thousand until the rage fades away all because Peter's removed another enjoyable perk from the building or tasked Stiles with bringing him coffee or just so much as walked by Stiles’ cubicle and left the annoyingly nice smell of his cologne drifting along behind him.

Stiles exhales through his nostrils and dumps the chips on the dustpan into the garbage. The measly three left in the bag will have to be cherished.

“You’re going to start hating to work if you don’t,” the sheriff points out.

“Yeah, well, everybody hates work, don’t they?” Stiles grumbles. “I can join the masses.”

“Stiles,” his father says, and he has the audacity to use the voice he used to use on Stiles when he was under ten and misbehaving. “Be a grown up about this.”

“Fine! Fine. And how do you propose I do that?”

“Go see him on Monday. Tell him what the problem is. He’s a real person, just like you. Treat him like one and you might get somewhere.”

It’s stupid advice. It’s way too mature for Stiles’ taste and not really what he wanted to hear, which was more along the lines of useless soothing and cooing at him about how hard his life must be. He just wanted some empathy, not instructions to go _fix the damn problem_.

Stiles sighs, stuffing a couple of the remaining chips into his mouth. “Fine,” he says through bites. “But if this goes badly, I'm blaming you.”

The sheriff matches Stiles’ sigh with one of his own. “Sounds fair.”

“Great. Now can we talk about something a little less annoying?” Loud, angry conservatives. The rise of the state tax. Increase in homicide in Beacon Hills. Any of these would be a considerable upgrade from the current topic.

“Sure we can. What else is new?”

\--

On Monday, the nice toilet paper is gone.

Stiles is absolutely furious. This is a perk he really valued—and took for granted, apparently—because there's something extremely luxurious about using thick, fluffy toilet paper instead of the paper-thin prosciutto he uses at home. And now that's gone and he gets to wipe himself with one-ply sandpaper while he's at work and he knows exactly who to blame for this. 

He can’t believe he was about to take his father’s advice and _talk_ to the bastard responsible for this travesty. A man willing to take soft plushness away from the toilet cannot be trusted, certainly cannot be _reasoned_ with, and Stiles feels like a damn fool for even considering it.

He thinks about TPing Peter’s office, if only to make a symbolic statement, but he has the grim feeling that he would immediately be the prime suspect and that would ultimately be a backfiring gun boomeranging back around to himself. Also, if he’s not yet fired, that would probably be the nail in that coffin.

As it turns out, magnificently enough, Stiles is not fired. When he gets to his desk, there isn’t a formal goodbye note sitting on top of his keyboard and his things are all still where he left them, so there’s that. It still doesn’t make him want to go to Peter’s office and hash things out like an adult, although it does make him curious as to why it seems like Peter didn’t complain about his temper and bad manners to Finstock. He certainly would’ve deserved it.

He didn’t deserve losing the nice toilet paper, though. Nobody deserves that. Nobody.

He almost wants to find Peter and ask him why he didn’t complain about him, but that seems a little like poking a sleeping bear, and besides, for all he knows, Peter _did_ complain and Finstock just wasn’t listening. Finstock never listens when Stiles is involved, which for once might just be a major advantage. Best to just let all that go and try his hardest to show Peter a shred of respect from here on out. It’ll be extremely difficult, but Stiles will try.

This new philosophy is tested only a short twenty minutes later, when Stiles heads to the water cooler for an early morning refreshment and Peter walks by him.

“Stiles,” Peter says. His eyes are trained downward onto a thick pile of papers he's carrying with him that Stiles only hopes isn’t full of all of the bad financial decisions he’s made over the years for the company. “Come into my office for a second.”

Does this guy even know how to form sentences? _Requests_? Was he the kind of self-entitled kid with an equally self-entitled father who taught him he didn’t have to ask nicely for anything, just demand and grab? Stiles begrudgingly follows him into his office.

“What is it?”

Peter reaches over his desk, handing over a folder for Stiles to take. “Bring this over to Greenberg when you have the chance, would you?”

“Um. You do realize I’m not the mail staff?”

Peter looks at him. “Greenberg’s desk is five steps away from yours.”

“That’s not the—” Stiles runs his hands through his hair, furious for a reason he can’t even explain. It’s like just standing next to Peter turns him into a temperamental child who can’t handle his volcanic rage. Peter’s just so—he’s just so goddamn— “You’re not my superior, all right? You can’t give me orders and treat me like your assistant.”

“You have quite the inflated pride, don’t you?”

“It’s not pride, jesus christ, I just don’t—” He stops himself again. _Like you_ , his brain supplies. _Want to work with you. Enjoy seeing you at work every single day._ "I don't see why you can't find somebody else to run your errands. I have a job to do here."

"I saw you first in the hallway," Peter rationalizes.

"Oh, please, like this isn't _intentional_."

"Intentional?"

"Annoying me. Pushing my buttons. Getting a rise out of me."

Peter's lips twitch upwards, almost into a smile. The sight irks Stiles; as far as he's concerned, people like Peter don't get to smile.

"Why would I want to annoy you?" Peter asks, like he doesn't fucking know. Like he doesn't find it amusing to watch Stiles get worked up.

Stiles remembers, distantly in the back of his mind, his father’s well-meaning advice to be the mature big boy in this situation. Get his thoughts out there. Tell Peter how he feels and just articulate himself.

It feels fucking _ridiculous_ right now.

He must be pretty obvious about just how annoyed he currently is, because Peter gives him a smile and says, “Seems like there’s something you want to tell me, Stiles.”

“No,” Stiles says through gritted teeth, then realizes his entire face is pinched into one big irritated wrinkle. “No, there isn’t.”

“I’d prefer you get it out now,” Peter says, “instead of pushing it out our entire working relationship.”

If he grinds his teeth together any more, he won’t have any teeth by the end of this conversation. Just empty, hollow gums. “I feel like,” he finally says, “you’re belittling me and undervaluing my talents.”

“Your talents?”

“Yeah. My skills. What I bring to this company,” Stiles says. “I’m not an intern.”

“I know that.”

“Do you, though? Do you?”

Peter’s smile widens. He curls his hand around Stiles’ shoulder in what might be a friendly gesture but could very easily also be a patronizing brush-off. Stiles is inclined to go with the latter, but he might be slightly biased when it comes to interpreting Peter’s actions.

“I do,” Peter says. “And I promise I’ll try to utilize your _talents_ more in the future.”

Dear god. Why does the way he says _talents_ make it sound like Stiles is a pornstar. Stiles swallows, very much—too much—aware of the warm pressure of Peter’s hand around his shoulder.

“I’m glad we had this talk,” Peter says, hands him the folder, and moves to walk away like all of this has been a productive, useful conversation. “And don't forget to give that to Greenberg.”

He's _glad they had this talk_. Stiles is fucking positive it went in one ear and out the other.

\--

The thing that really kills Stiles here—more than the disappearing perks, more than the scratchy toilet paper, more than the vanishing condiments—is how good looking Peter is. That’s just _unfair_.

It was already obvious that first day they met in the coffeeshop, even if it was slightly masked by the fact that Stiles was frothing over with frustration and hatred, but with each passing day, it gets slightly more noticeable. Slightly less ignorable. Slightly more _obnoxious_.

Peter’s extremely attractive. That’s just how the fucking world works—the worst people are the best looking, graced with the nicest teeth, the bluest eyes. If there's a correlation between truly rotten personalities and nicely-sized chiseled chests, Peter’s living proof. Stiles doesn’t _want_ to be noticing these things, but he can’t help it. Peter’s been giving a lot of presentations since he started working here, stupid little PowerPoints about where to save money and what each and every employee can do to keep the budget in mind, boring nonsense that Stiles zones out of, and then where is his mind supposed to wander except to Peter’s body? How his fingers look wrapped around the laser pointer. How firm his torso looks underneath his shirt. How lean his legs are. How nice it’d be to have Peter’s mouth occupied with something other than belittling Stiles.

Why isn’t Peter hunchback levels of ugly? Why does he have to be so damn good looking? The exterior should match the interior, and Stiles is pretty sure that the interior is deformed and nasty and hideous. Why can’t Stiles stop thinking about if this dick has a really nice dick?

Why does the universe hate Stiles so fucking much?

\--

By Thursday, the office has become a fucking igloo. 

Stiles shows up and within two hours, he’s feeling frostbite setting in. It was never this damn cold at work before, and Stiles knows exactly who to blame for this. The same person he's been blaming for every other damn thing that's gone wrong in his life recently.

After all, you don’t have to pay employees when they’re _frozen to death_.

When he goes to check up on the thermostat on his way to the bathroom, there’s a small, plastic cage around it locked into place. 

“Motherfucker,” he says.

He thinks about breaking it, then looks over his shoulders and counts a few cameras in the hallway that are watching him as if waiting for him to perpetrate a crime. Maybe he could come late at night and wear all black. Or maybe he could sharpie over the camera lenses so no one would know his hatred has inspired him to become a petty vandal at his own workplace.

Or maybe he could take an early lunch, go to his car, and just scream for a bit until he feels better.

He runs into Finstock in the bathroom while he's still plotting ways to foil all of Peter's plans like some office vigilante fighting for justice and moderate indoor temperatures, who comes out of a cubicle like he doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the sad excuse for toilet paper they now have. Stiles doesn't get why there hasn't been an uproar yet. He needs a whole wad of toilet paper now to do the job that only a few pieces used to get done, so where exactly are the savings coming from here?

“So Stilinski,” Finstock asks while they're both washing their hands in the sinks. “What do you think of our resident finance guru?”

He's the devil reincarnated. He's annoying, pompous, entitled, and possibly evil. He also wears snug shirts too often to be healthy.

“He's, uh.” Stiles tries to think of a diplomatic, safe-for-work way to say this. “He's interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Yeah.” Stiles pulls his hands out from under the water. “I'm just not sure he… fits into the team, is all.”

Finstock snorts. “Oh, he's fitting. And he’s staying, for the record. He's finding money we had squeezed in crevices I didn't even know we had around here.”

Fuck. That's exactly what Stiles had been hoping against. Optimistically, Peter would've been horrible at his job and disappointing everybody and secretly embezzling. “Aren’t we losing money just by employing him?” Stiles asks, helpless.

“Relax, Stilinski, he’s a temporary employee,” Finstock says. “He’s not gonna be here forever. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” Stiles repeats, wishing someone, _anyone_ , would start to see what he sees. He rips a few paper towels aggressively out of the dispenser. “The big deal is that he's just a consultant and is marching around here giving orders to everybody.”

“Stilinski,” Finstock says slowly, wearily, in a way that makes it clear that he's not about to be in fervent agreement with Stiles. “Do us all a favor and relax. He's a highly recommended, very well educated, financial guru. If he asks you to make copies for him now and then, just suck it up and do it.”

“But,” Stiles starts, because it's not just _copy making_.

“Stop butting heads with the guy and focus on your own work,” Finstock interrupts. “Or did no one ever teach you how to play nice with others?”

There’s just no non-embarrassing way to answer that. Stiles opens his mouth and waits for a comeback that never forms.

“I highly encourage growing up,” Finstock says, shooting him the most degrading thumbs up in the world, and wiping his wet hands off on his pants. “And stop wasting paper towels.”

Stiles realizes he's still passive-aggressively ripping them out of the dispenser. He has about fifteen of them crumpled up in his hands, definitely more than he needs, and he colors.

“I—yeah, okay.”

Finstock leaves after giving him one last Stern Glare. It kind of gives Stiles the impression that Finstock is very much aware of who's been leaving all those strongly-worded complaints in the comment box outside his office and is no longer amused. Stiles has no idea where to usefully vent all his hatred for Peter to if he can't anonymously smear him on a daily basis in that box, especially since he was already mentally wording one regarding the frigid temperatures. He has a feeling that Finstock is getting too good at recognizing his signature and might not be able to get anywhere with that plan.

His second best idea is passive protesting. He shows up the next day in a woolen winter sweater that goes all the way up he's neck and sees if that will jumpstart any conversations about the change in temperature and tyranny and how a mass complaint campaign might just do the trick, and unfortunately, it doesn't.

He might need to come up with more plans.

\--

"Working hard?"

"Fuck," Stiles hisses, hand jerking to life on the mouse to minimize Chrome. Peter's leaning against the wall of his cubicle, smirking. "I didn't hear you come over here."

"Obviously," Peter says, nodding over to where Stiles just had Matthew Gray Gubler's Twitter page open. He’s in a deep gray suit today. Always suits, always well-tailored, always impeccable suits.

"In my defense, I already have my morning workload taken care of," Stiles says, straightening up. "I'm just on a break. To clear the mind."

"Of course," Peter says. He looks around Stiles’ cubicle, most likely looking for things he can get Stiles fired for, like pornography magazines and open flames, and his eyes settle on the High School Musical calendar Stiles has hanging on the wall over his computer. This month is shirtless Zac Efron—the best month, really—but under Peter’s stare, Stiles suddenly feels intensely juvenile for having ever thought it was a good idea to pin this up at work.

"Nice calendar," Peter says.

“Impulse buy,” Stiles tells him, which is about the biggest lie he’s ever told, because in what world would a calendar that has shirtless Zac Efron in it be anything but a coveted purchase? “Did you need something?”

“Yes, incidentally,” Peter says. “Be a dear and get me a cup of coffee. Easy on the half and half.”

"What?"

"Just one pump of cream should do," Peter tells him. "No sugar."

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles says again. “You know that I’m busy here, right?”

“I can see that,” Peter says slowly, which manages to throw a pink heat over Stiles’ neck. “As it so happens, I am too.” He winks, which Stiles doesn’t appreciate one bit.

“That talk we had—do you not remember that at all?”

“Of course I do,” Peter says. “As it just so happens, I’m recognizing your talent to whip up a wonderful cup of coffee.” He smiles. “Bring it to my office, yes?”

He walks away at that, like Stiles is even somewhat interested in playing unpaid butler to that asshole. He shakes his head, fully prepared to treat that command like he would a delete-able email, and goes back to his work-slash-Twitter.

Naturally, that plan doesn’t work out so well, because the second Stiles gets up to go the printer five minutes later, he runs smack into Finstock, whose only purpose seems to be to bust Stiles’ chops. 

“Stilinski, what the hell are you doing?” Finstock asks.

"Uh. Going to my desk. To work hard."

His answer doesn't seem to please Finstock. "I just ran into Peter. He says he's waiting for you." Finstock raises his eyebrows high with expectation. "What's the hold up?"

Stiles grinds his teeth together, listening to the crunch of his own mouth. "I thought actual work was more important than running useless errands all day."

It's the simmered down version of what he really wants to say, which is that Peter's frivolous, frustrating, completely unnecessary duties that he keeps tasking Stiles with are making him want to commit homicide in the middle of the workday. Even watered down, it's clearly not what Finstock wants to hear. He steps closer, the irritation obvious on his face.

“Were you not listening when I told everybody to cooperate with Peter? Help him out?”

Stiles can't believe this is happening. He might just get the never-learned-to-play-with-other-people lecture again. "This isn’t even budget related!" he cries. "He just wants me to get him coffee, for god’s sake.”

"Stilinski, it takes three minutes out of your day," Finstock says, not sensitive to his plight. "He's currently running numbers that determine how many of us need to get the axe to keep this company above water. Go get the man coffee."

He raises his eyebrows at Stiles like he's trying to send a message. What Stiles is getting out of this is that whether or not he brings Peter beverages like a slave may or may not factor into whether or not he keeps his job.

Feeling even more annoyed than before and slightly threatened, Stiles heads over to the coffeemaker and starts putting a cup together more aggressively than necessary. He can't believe this. If he thought HR would do anything about this, he'd stomp over to them and spread the very same story that Finstock just implied to him, that his job hangs in the balance, but a well-made coffee might spare him. It takes every ounce of willpower not to sneeze in the cup.

But he doesn't. No, no, he's better than that.

He slams the finished product down on Peter's desk, not bothering to knock before he enters his office. It sloshes a little, but stays mostly inside its confines.

"Here."

"Thanks," Peter says, taking an experimental sip off the top. "Mm. You'd make a wonderful barista, Stiles."

Is that—is he implying something? Is he clueing Stiles in that he might as well start looking for jobs at Starbucks now? Is this fucking funny to him?

"You'd like that, wouldn't you," Stiles says, feeling his anger mount up again, and slams the door shut on his way out.

\--

"You know what one of the worst things in the world is?" Stiles asks, staring across the cafeteria, his eyes fixed on Peter’s broad backside as Peter one-handedly prepares his coffee while he talks on the phone. He has a nice backside. "Attractive assholes."

“What are you talking about?” Isaac asks. “I’m guessing yourself?”

Stiles looks away from the line of Peter’s shoulders, frowning. “You think I’m an asshole?”

“Yeah. You’ve made up excuses twice this month to not be on coffee duty.” Isaac points at Stiles’ lunch tray. “Are you planning on eating those fries?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, snatching them out of Isaac’s reaching range. “And I wasn’t talking about myself.”

"Who then?" Isaac narrows his eyes. "I don't think about you like that, you know."

"Funny," Stiles says. He stuffs a fry into his mouth and watches Peter pepper sugar into his cup, proving that he can, in fact, make his own coffee. "The new guy.”

“The finance man? The one your shirt had that run-in with?” At Stiles’ disgruntled silence, because yes, Stiles realizes just how crazy it is that he’s starting to be driven sexually mad by someone who’s so fucking annoying, Isaac smiles. He seems to notice the same dark humor in this situation, laughing. “And now you want in his _pants_?”

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late,” Scott says, squeezing past the lunch line trailing all the way out to the tables and sliding into the seat next to Isaac. “What are we talking about?”

“How Stiles has the hots for the finance guy.”

“What?”

“I don’t have the _hots_ for him,” Stiles says hotly, and considers throwing his applesauce at Isaac for that. Maybe adulthood isn’t all that different from elementary school after all. “I just—I can admit that he’s good looking. He’s also a complete dickhead who picks on me.”

“Wait, he picks on you?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Has nobody else noticed that he calls me into his office way more than anybody else?”

“Sounds sexual,” Isaac comments.

“It isn’t,” Stiles says. He plays with the sandwich on his plate, picking at the bread. “He treats me like I’m his secretary. Bring this file here, get me those numbers there, make me a pot of coffee. I have a _degree_.”

“Just sleep with him already,” Isaac says.

"Shut up," Stiles says, his face burning. He glances around the cafeteria just to see if any nosy ears are listening in. It's loud in here, but you never know. "It's against the rules. Besides, do any of you remember the complete disaster that was me and Lydia?"

"Lydia wasn't interested in you," Isaac says, clearly not pulling any punches. "I think the failure level changes a bit when there's mutual attraction going on." A new argument seems to strike him, and he furrows his eyebrows. "Since when do you care about breaking the rules anyway?"

"Wait—you think Peter's into me?"

"Probably why he's teasing you like a schoolboy with a crush."

"So you think that it's weird too?” Stiles asks. “How he's bothering me all the time?"

Isaac shrugs. "Maybe he just doesn't know how to ask you out nicely."

"Oh, he doesn't know how to do anything _nicely_."

“Maybe you should show a little more leg,” Isaac suggests, completely pointlessly. “I bet he’ll get a lot nicer then.”

"As if that's even a possibility in this kind of weather," Stiles says. “Haven’t you noticed how fucking freezing the office is lately?”

“Just another penny-pinching technique.”

“It's infuriating,” Stiles says, squeezing his sandwich hard enough that the fillings nearly slip out the sides. “ _He's_ infuriating.” He's also turning himself on a little bit here just thinking about how good Peter would probably be at aggressive, angry sex. “You know what? Forget I said anything.”

“No fucking way,” Isaac says, sounding gleeful. “You should fuck him.”

“No,” Stiles says, ears turning hot.

“Why not? You look like someone who needs to get laid anyway.”

“Wow, thanks,” Stiles says, vaguely wondering when the last time Isaac paid him an actual compliment was. “I'm not fucking Peter.”

“You should,” Scott agrees, somehow making this worse. “If you want to, that is.”

“I don't,” Stiles lies. His ankles are suddenly so very itchy. All of him is suddenly itchy. “We should talk about something else.”

And while he’s at it, he should think about something else too. Something other than Peter’s ass as Stiles watches him walk out of the cafeteria and wonders what it would be like to grab onto it without any pants in the way.

\--

Stiles has been at this job for nearly three years now. He and Scott both found positions there after college, which was a stroke of luck, a streak which continued when Isaac was hired three months later and all their cubicles ended up in spitting distance. The night Isaac was hired, a chilly Tuesday evening in late winter, they celebrated by heading to the bar two blocks down from the office, one of those dinky, feel-good places with outdated music and wooden paneling on the walls and peeling leather on the stools, and somehow along the way, it became a tradition. Every Tuesday night, without fail, time to raise a few glasses to another seven days gone by without getting fired.

It’s a nice tradition. Some of the weeks are rougher than other weeks, and having a beer with your buds is a nice way to shake off all that micromanaging and feeling overworked and being judged by coworkers because you sometimes take Pokemon Go breaks when you should probably be replying to work emails.

And then sometimes, the skies open up and find ways to drop shit all over formerly nice traditions.

It starts out a regular Tuesday night. The three of them take a seat at the bar and order beers and take turns griping about their complaints du jour, and everything feels normal and pleasant. At first.

It takes Stiles a moment to realize that there’s someone he recognizes back by the dartboards. They’ve been sitting here for about twenty minutes, playing table football with peanuts and working on their second round of beers for the night, Isaac venting about the new inbox they’ve updated to all the while, when Stiles swivels around on his stool to take in the crowd for the evening, eyes scanning over the truckers by the pool table and the group of ladies in a booth in the corner and Peter pulling darts out of the board near the back and—wait, what? _Peter?_

What the fuck is he doing here? Why on earth is he invading Stiles’ personal after-work sanctuaries like some kind of bad penny he can't shake?

“Shit. Guys.” Stiles pokes Isaac in the arm. “Three o’clock. Behind you. I think that’s Peter. Shit, don’t look all at once.”

Nobody listens; Scott and Isaac both twist around and check, and there’s Peter wearing something that isn’t a crisp suit throwing darts over in the corner of the club, and _god_ , he looks even better in a black low-cut tee than he does in a form-fitted blazer—

Peter looks over just as Stiles is ogling his thighs, like he might’ve just read Stiles’ mind because it only makes sense that the devil has secret powers, and Stiles curses under his breath, nearly toppling his drink over into his lap. Why does this happen so often around Peter? For Christ’s sake.

Peter smiles and Stiles instantly looks away. His entire face is burning up, and he has the feeling the one and a half glasses of mild beer he drank isn’t responsible.

“Pretty sure he saw you,” Isaac says. “Why don’t you go over there and say hi?”

“Uh, _no_ ,” Stiles says, shielding his face like it’ll actually help, like he still has a chance to hide. As a matter of fact, he’s considering leaving right now instead. “He’s probably just going to give me more shit to deliver to Greenberg if I do.”

“You’re off the clock.”

“I know, but he _would._ He so would.”

“Hi,” Peter says, suddenly right behind Stiles, which of course would happen, it’s _Stiles’ life_ , the entire thing has been nothing but a joke so far. Stiles swivels around on his chair and Peter’s there, still holding a dart that he’s spinning around in his fingers. “Pleasure running into you three.” His eyes linger on Stiles, like Stiles is somehow different from the rest of them, and what did Stiles say about being picked on? He’s totally being picked on. “Stiles.”

“Hi,” Stiles says. He nods to the dart in Peter’s hand. “You’re a darts player.”

“Recreationally,” Peter says. “But I am exceedingly good at it.” He twirls the dart again, and the way he looks at Stiles, eyes full of challenge, makes Stiles wish he had something to hammer down his increasingly curious dick with. “Are you up for a round?”

“No,” Stiles says immediately, because there’s no way that can result in anything good, but then Isaac’s smacking him on the back and answering for him, grin wide and so very punchable.

“He totally is,” Isaac says, pushing Stiles to his feet, and next to him, Scott is hiding his grin behind the protection of his glass, clearly not about to come to Stiles’ aid. Stiles hates them both. Hell, he hates everyone in this damn bar.

Peter smiles, and something about it makes Stiles feel like prey that's just been cornered. "Come on then." He leans in a smidge, still smiling, all teeth. "Are you comfortable having your ass kicked?"

"Stiles is comfortable with anything involving his ass," Isaac says helpfully, slapping Stiles on the back again, and honestly, Stiles needs to go on Craigslist and find new friends.

Stiles gets up partially just to escape their company lest Isaac say more hideously inappropriate things, and partially because Peter's goading is, admittedly and stupidly, working on him. He makes sure to shoot lasers over his shoulder where Scott and Isaac are grinning like cupid’s demonic friends, praying and hoping that just this once, his super powers kick in. Naturally, they don’t, and Stiles follows Peter over to the dartboard despite his survival instincts.

He’s not even good at darts. He’s not coordinated when it comes to aiming, and he can only imagine how perfect Peter is at it, because wouldn’t that just make sense? Peter defies all laws of logic and karma and justice.

"You come here a lot?" Peter asks as Stiles stares at the wall of darts and tries to figure out if one set is secretly the best, and how he might go about discovering that. Feeling Peter's eyes on his back, he finally just grabs some at random and pretends that he knows what he's doing.

"Uh, yeah. We come here every Tuesday," Stiles admits, and then immediately regrets admitting. What if Peter takes this as some kind of invitation and shows up every Tuesday now too? Tuesdays would be fucking _ruined_.

But Peter doesn't seem to care much about their tradition, which is somehow both a relief and feels a little rude. Honestly, everything Peter does pisses Stiles off a little bit, even when he gestures to the dartboard to let Stiles take the first shots.

They really shouldn't be hanging out like this. Stiles doesn't know if he's proving a point here, some kind of your-boss-is-relatable bullshit that the higher-ups encouraged Peter to do, but Stiles isn't thrilled to be part of it. Or at least, the only one who's part of it. Isaac and Scott are blissfully free of the obligation to spend time with Peter and are still watching them from over at the bar like the worst peanut gallery in the world.

Stiles looks away from them. He'll find a way to repay the favor, maybe send Isaac out on a blind date with Finstock.

“You look different,” Stiles says as he takes his mark a few feet away from the dartboard. He hadn’t even intended to say that out loud, but there it is, leaking out of his mouth without permission.

“Oh? How so?”

“Without the suit. I haven’t seen you in anything so… normal before.” Stiles looks at Peter's outfit again, at the dark tee, the snug jeans, the way some people are just _born_ to wear denim. He throws his dart. He hits the wall.

“You’re terrible at this, aren’t you?” Peter says, and this is exactly why Stiles doesn’t engage in competitive, skill-based activities with people he finds attractive.

Not that that matters. Not that Stiles is going to do anything about the fact that Peter’s hot, because he's still an asshole. Can he keep his head in the game for two fucking seconds?

“I’m better at other things,” Stiles says, and hopes to god that Peter doesn’t ask what the things are. He’s not even sure.

“Do you prefer this look?”

“What?”

Peter gestures down his body as he pries Stiles’ dart out of the wall, smoothing his thumb over the hole left behind. “Instead of the suit. Do you prefer it?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Stiles scratches his temple. He watches as Peter takes his stance at the line, straightens his shoulders, and concentrates, the curve of his back causing his shirt to slip down and reveal his collarbones. They’re nice collarbones. “Makes you look less like the principal.”

Peter huffs out a breath of laughter. “Principal? Is that how you look at me?”

“Or maybe someone’s really pompous government employee dad,” Stiles says. He realizes he's talking without a filter here, and considers dialing it back. Then again, he's not at work, and Finstock isn't going to come rounding the corner any moment telling him to be nice to the new guy. “It’s all the designer suits.”

Peter takes his shot, the dart zipping to the board like a magnet. It hits the innermost ring, the one right next to the center bullseye. Stiles hates himself a little bit for being impressed.

“Missed the center,” Stiles says.

“Feel free to try and do better,” Peter says.

“I can,” Stiles lies, and he has no clue why he's saying these words, why he feels like impressing Peter is so damn important, but this might be the wrong time and place to lie, because when he stands in front of the dartboard again, he really isn't sure he has any tips or tricks up his sleeve past the basics of throwing the dart.

“Let me show you how to do it,” Peter offers. "Come here."

"I'm doing just fine here, thanks," Stiles insists, bending his knees and concentrating on that tiny red circle in the center of the board. Why is it so tiny?

"You're really not," Peter says, and he has the audacity to chuckle. "Here."

He comes up behind Stiles with no warning, and oh my god, nobody's ever spooned Stiles vertically like this before, and how fucking obscene would this look if they were naked? Hell, how about he _not_ think of Peter's bare crotch snug against his ass while this is happening?

Peter's hand wraps around Stiles' tilting his wrist upwards and straightening his forearm. Is this flirting? Is this a move?

"You can't forget about your wrist," Peter says, his breath falling on Stiles' neck. Hasn't he seen a porn that starts like this? Were the darts involved or not? "It has to be steady. Firm. And your hand—honestly, Stiles, are you even trying to aim?"

"Fuck you," Stiles says.

Peter's resulting laugh hitting his ear from this proximity feels like that moment when you first put really soft, gooey cake in your mouth. "Save the trash talk for later, Stiles," Peter says. "Look at the target. Block out everything else.”

If any of this is supposed to help Stiles concentrate, he has no clue how—as a matter of fact, he’s starting to think that this is Peter’s tactic to make Stiles fuck up that much more. He shifts Stiles’ hand upward a bit more, molding it to a position he likes with firm fingers, and slips away when he’s satisfied.

“There,” he says, sounding inordinately pleased.

Stiles takes the shot. It hits the no-score black ring surrounding the board.

“You’re trying to sabotage me,” Stiles says.

"Mmm, are you saying I'm distracting you?"

A shiver worms its way through Stiles' body, and he hates that Peter must be able to feel it, what with the way he's pressed up against his backside like this. Dear lord, what must Isaac and Scott be thinking right now? Are they watching this? Of course they are, they're probably also recording it on their phones to torment Stiles with later.

“No,” Stiles says, swallowing. Can Peter feel him doing that? He’s close enough he can probably hear him blinking. “You just suck at darts.”

“I’m actually very good with my hands,” Peter says, and Stiles has to bite the inside of his cheeks at that. He can’t—he can’t fucking do this, he’s going to get a hard-on like a teenager two pages into a Playboy magazine. Peter’s hand slides over his elbow, trying to guide it into the right form, his palm warm and broad, and Stiles breaks.

“Okay, I think that’s enough,” he says, breaking away from Peter and their incredibly close proximity. “I’m okay with losing at darts.”

“Really?” Peter asks.

"I have to go," Stiles says, his entire being feeling like it's just been dipped in hot wax and set to stiffen. He needs to get out of here. He especially needs to get out of here before a very specific part of him decides to stiffen.

Peter twirls a dart in his hand and fuck, looking at his fingers isn't helping the situation. "You have a curfew?"

His dick does, definitely. "Yeah. No. Sort of." He backs away from the table. "I just—I like being home early. Before I, you know, turn into a pumpkin."

Is he actually saying these words? Are they seriously coming out of his mouth? He turns around and almost trips over his own eagerness to get the fuck out of there, darting over to where Isaac and Scott are watching the two of them with beers in hand with the subtlety of prom night chaperones. He grabs his jacket off the stool and heads directly for the door, do not turn around and stare at Peter, do not pass go, do not collect three hundred dollars.

He spends about an eternity out there in the cold just trying to figure out how this evening spiraled away into what might as well be the opening to a pornography video set in a seedy bar, unable to make sense of any of it or to get his tingling crotch to calm the fuck down, and after a few more eternities, Scott and Isaac finally come out, slipping into their jackets.

"I need to know," Stiles says, teetering on the edge of desperation. "Did that look as bad as I think it did?"

“Not if you were trying to audition for a Marvin Gaye music video,” Isaac says.

Stiles turns to Scott instead, because Scott is much nicer than Isaac, Scott takes him seriously, Scott won’t find this entire situation funny—

“Are you laughing?” Stiles asks Scott, fuming. “Stop laughing!”

"I'm sorry," Scott says, sounding not the least bit sorry at all. "I just think Isaac might be right about you crushing on this guy."

"I'm not—I don't have a—none of this is funny," Stiles says, but Isaac and Scott are both grinning, so apparently it's funny to everybody else and Stiles is just extraordinarily out of the loop. God, that's annoying. "You guys are the worst. I'm going home, where no one will laugh at me."

He can't believe this. He can't believe that Peter ruined Tuesday night at the bar, which used to be his favorite night of the week at one of his favorite places. How is he even supposed to walk in there again without immediately getting a boner at the memory of Peter folded up close against him by the dartboards? No, no, no.

Tuesdays at the bar are fucking _destroyed_. Stiles fumbles for his keys, not even bothering to wave goodbye to his friends, too busy escaping the scene of his humiliation. Their laughter follows all the way to his car, after which he zooms away like a burglar in a getaway vehicle. How is he even supposed to look Peter in the eyes on Monday?

The second he gets home, he locks the door and snakes his hands into his pants, the memory of Peter arched over him, touching his wrist, breathing in his ear, too much for him to handle anymore.

He should be ashamed, masturbating to the guy who’s been basically tormenting him the last few weeks, but he can’t find it in himself to bother, not when he’s practically foaming at the mouth for release. He shoves his pants down just enough to give himself wiggle room and strokes his dick, hard and fast and nearly painful, the dry skin-on-skin almost too much.

He can’t help it; images of Peter just show up behind his eyelids, right in front of him. Peter palming him through his jeans right there by the dartboard, whispering filth in his ear, taking him out back and fucking him up against the wall. He whines, his hand too rough and too sloppy, missing the finesse he usually goes for, but this time it’s all he needs, the ghost of Peter’s touch, Peter’s chest around his back, Peter’s arms around his, strong enough to take the edge off.

He comes embarrassingly fast. His chest is heaving and his head is spinning when he does, hand instantaneously sticky in his underwear. Something about this fucking guy—it was bad enough having to watch his ass from a distance during presentations, and it was even worse feeling the sexual tension build up with each argument Stiles riled up between them, but now this? Practically grinding up against him in a bar? Stiles’ self-restraint can only be stretched so fucking far. He tries to catch his breath, sliding his hand back out of his pants.

Afterwards, there’s nothing really holding the shame at bay anymore. It comes creeping into him like a spider crawling up his shirt, reminding him that he’s just turned an iffy situation much worse by acting on it, by _indulging_ in these ridiculous yearnings. He should be pushing them all far back into the attic of his mind, not lassoing them forward and giving them the time of day. He should be focusing on how horrible and pedantic and irritating Peter is, not all the other stuff.

His job is on the line. His fucking job is on the line!

Okay, this is it. This is the first and last time he masturbates to Peter. 

\--

After that incident at the bar, it's like Peter senses that Stiles was extremely uncomfortable hanging out with him outside of only the mandatory time they need to spend together at work, and makes it his own personal mission to recreate this discomfort wherever he can.

It's like Peter's everywhere. Maybe he was always there and Stiles just never noticed, just another faceless suit at the bank or the gas station or the post office, but now he knows, and he sees Peter around every corner. It’s like the world really _is_ that small and that terrible.

It feels like a personal jab when he sees Peter at the grocery store, where Stiles buys _food_ , another thing which Peter has tainted for him. What on earth has Peter not soiled for him at this point? When will the universe do Stiles a favor and pull Peter into a sinkhole?

"Stiles," Peter says when he sees him by the grapes. "You shop here too?"

Not anymore, Stiles thinks, but apparently his facial expression makes it clear without words being necessary, because Peter smirks and steps a few inches closer.

"You seem a little hostile towards me," he says slowly, head tilted like he's looking at Stiles like a psychiatrist would. Stiles doesn't appreciate that. "Why is that?"

"I'm not hostile," Stiles says. "I'm just—we work together. We're coworkers. Doesn't mean we have to get chummy in grocery stores, right?"

"You realize I'm not your boss outside of work, yes?"

"Then what exactly are you right now?" Stiles narrows his eyes. "Are you back to being the asshole who ruined my shirt?" He stops for a moment. “Hey, you’re not even my boss _at work_. You’re just the finance guy.”

A light of recognition flashes over Peter's face. He smiles. "This is about the shirt."

"Yeah. It is," Stiles admits, deciding there's no point in bustling around it, even if it's childish, immature, and ridiculous to hold a grudge over a coffee stain. "You never apologized. You were a complete moron about it. And it was one my favorite work shirts, did you know that? It was soft and looked good on me."

"Your shirt," he says. "This is all about your shirt."

Okay, it might be about more than that by now, like the coffee delivering and the gofer treatment and that Stiles is using over-the-top sarcasm and animosity to form a divide between them to try and keep all his sexual rumblings about Peter at bay, but it’s a lot easier to just blame the shirt and be done with it, so.

"Yeah."

Peter looks at him, and for a moment, it seems like he might finally say he's sorry, maybe even fish a hundred dollar bill out of his thousand dollar wallet and tell Stiles to go to the nicest Nordstrom in town to find a replacement. Instead he rolls his eyes, groaning.

"For heaven's sake," he says under his breath, then grabs Stiles' wrist. "Come on."

"Wait, what?"

" _Come on_ ," Peter says again, pulling on Stiles' arm. "Take me to your place."

"Take you to my—" Stiles wonders for a brief, crazy moment if Peter's intending to repay this incident to Stiles in the currency of sex, and that maybe he hasn't been imagining all of those—those _charged_ moments between them, but that's crazy. There's no possible way. "Why are we going there?"

"To get the wretched shirt," Peter says, enunciating each syllable with a palpable irritation that's almost impressive, "and smooth your ruffled feathers."

"What?" Stiles says. "And my feathers aren't _ruffled_."

“They are. They very much are,” Peter says, firmly, like Stiles could’ve at least _tried_ to do a better job of lying. He pulls and yanks on Stiles’ arm like he’s an unruly dog resisting his leash until they’re out in the parking lot, leaving Stiles disgruntled and without all the snacks he was planning on picking up tonight.

"You really don't have to do this," Stiles says.

"You won't stop complaining," Peter says, "until I do, so here we are.” He lets go of Stiles just as they reach a luxury car that _of fucking course_ belongs to Peter, all sleek silver paint and shining hubcaps and not a single scratch to be seen. This thing could pay back all of Stiles’ student loans and then some in one fell sweep. Stiles gets in and feels a little like he’s sitting on a leather cloud.

Stiles has to admit, he likes the idea of his shirt finally getting the pampering it deserves and going back into his closet and off the sad pile on the floor where it is now. It's more the whole having-Peter-in-his-apartment thing that he's against.

The thing is, once he's in there, Stiles will know what he looks like standing in it, and once he's standing in it, that's just a hop and a skip for his imagination to how he might look lounging naked in it. All he can think about is how he masturbated there to the thought of Peter not that long ago, how hard he came thinking of Peter's neck, hands, eyes, arms, chest, and now Peter will be standing in the very same spot where Stiles shamelessly jerked off, taking in the decorations and the furniture. That's nightmare fuel right there.

They drive in relative silence, Stiles mostly only piping up to give directions when he's not in the middle of being distracted by this luxury car’s bells and whistles. Seat heaters. Rear-view camera. Built-in GPS. Peter must know something about finances after all if he can handle and save money well enough to be able to afford a car like this. Stiles is almost surprised that solid gold isn't lining the cup holders.

“Okay,” Stiles say once they make it in front of his apartment. “I'll just run up and get it.”

“I'll come with,” Peter says, turning off the car.

“That's not necessary,” Stiles says quickly. “I mean. I haven't vacuumed in so long.”

Is that really the best he can do? Really?

“I'm sure I can handle that,” Peter says, cutting Stiles a sideways glance like he's a little odd. He is, or at least, Peter makes him so. “Let’s go.”

No, no, no, Stiles wanted to avoid this weird intimacy of crossing the line of having Peter _inside his apartment_. There are certain people you just can't see outside of their designated spots, like teachers outside of school or old classmates outside of Facebook, and this rule very much applies to Peter, who shouldn't be able to exist anywhere outside of the office, especially not Stiles’ home. It was bad enough at the bar, and the grocery store but now this? Now _this?_

He can't think of a good reason that makes actual sense when spoken aloud why Peter can't come in as they walk up the stairs to his apartment, no matter how hard he wracks his brain. By the time they make it to the door and Stiles fiddles with his key, Peter's still standing behind him, expectant.

He opens the door and steps inside. Peter follows him.

“What are you waiting for?” Peter asks.

“Okay, but just—stay here.” Stiles can’t handle the idea of Peter making himself at home in his apartment, so the lights are staying off and Peter better keep his ass parked right at the threshold. Any further and this will seriously mess with Stiles’ brain.

He navigates his furniture through the darkness until he’s in his bedroom, where he flicks on the bedside lamp and roots around the pile of clothes on his floor until he finds the shirt in question, still in the same state of miserable filthiness he left it in after discarding it the day it was ruined.

He looks long and hard at it, at the huge, Russia-sized stain smack in the center. Getting Peter to clean this for him feels a little like stepping over the edge of a cliff he really doesn’t want to leap off of, and he can’t quite pinpoint why. Maybe because it’ll be one step closer to actually liking Peter as a person? Maybe because it’ll take away one of his main reasons to be so hostile to him, which really, is a remarkable shield against any and all incoming feelings, flirtations, or other such casualties? Or maybe because someone else doing his laundry feels very personal, very friendly, very _intimate_?

Well, too fucking late to back out now.

When he comes out of his bedroom, Peter’s taken the liberty to turn the light on and is going through one of Stiles’ photo albums. For fuck’s sake.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stiles says, trying to do his best to keep it together. Did he take off his shoes too? Why stop there, did he take off his pants as well? “Mind giving a guy some privacy?”

“You were a cute child,” Peter says. “And I venture less hot-headed than you are now.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, crossing the apartment in a few hurried strides and snatching the album back. “I’m not a hothead.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Peter says, eyes sliding down to the fabric crumpled in Stiles’ hand. “Is that the shirt?”

“Yeah.”

Peter takes it from him and straightens it out, lifting it up by the shoulder seams. His mouth slips into a grimace.

"Why on earth is this your favorite shirt?" Peter says as he holds it out, nose wrinkled. "This is a travesty me and my coffee saved you from."

Stiles snatches it out of his critical grip. "We can't all afford Versace."

"I can only hope that there's still some affordable middle ground between Versace and whatever this is," Peter says. He sighs. "Fine. Let's get it taken care of."

\--

The drycleaner Peter picks is nice. There’s even a little bell on the counter next to a tiny sign that has chalked on it _ring bell for service_ , and there are black and white pictures of old comedians on the far wall. The last drycleaner Stiles went to got shut down for mold spores in the walls, so he feels a little spoiled walking into this place.

"So now that I'm taking care of your precious, _favorite_ shirt,” Peter says, ringing the bell by the cash register, “will you drop your childish grudge?"

Stiles looks away from the picture of Jay Leno on the wall, turning to Peter. He has to wonder for a moment if Peter wants Stiles to like him. It doesn't make earthly sense, but it sure feels that way.

"Okay, fine," he sighs. "It's not just the shirt."

"It isn't?"

"Yes, it started with the shirt, but I would've gotten over it if you had just said you were sorry," Stiles says. "And then there was how rich you were and how arrogant you were and how you treated me like the office postman and how good—" —you looked in that shirt that night at the club— "—you were at darts."

Peter looks at him, long and hard, and Stiles can practically _smell_ the rebuttal he's crafting together in his head right now, but when he opens his mouth, the expected, derisive _now see here!_ doesn't come out.

Instead he says, "Do you want to get some coffee?"

"What?" Stiles says. "Were you even listening?"

"Of course I was. It'd be nice to talk about all your various issues of me over coffee, don't you think," Peter says, and the way he says it makes it sound like it isn't even a question, but rather a fact they've decided on. It's both impressive and infuriating. "I'm feeling a little parched. And now that I'm here paying for your hideous shirt to be cleaned, you definitely owe me a quality cup of coffee."

"That shirt was your fault," Stiles says, still desperate to keep hold of the sanity of this conversation. "It wasn't so hideous before you ran into me with your unlidded drink."

"Trust me, it was then, too. You need something better fitting. Did nobody ever teach you how to dress yourself?" Just then, a woman holding an armful of freshly laundered clothes comes through the backdoor and sees them, coming up to the counter. Peter leans in and says, "Yes, hello, can you wash this shirt until it goes from horrendous to slightly less horrendous?" He holds the shirt out for her to take. "Oh, and if I can smell the perchloroethylene, I'm not accepting it."

Stiles has to admit, he hates himself a little bit for being slightly turned on when Peter bosses someone around who isn’t himself. There’s something about that take-what-you-want attitude that’s stirring up instincts in Stiles to bite down on that exposed line of Peter’s neck and just keep licking, keep sucking—

"All right, let's go," Peter says, straightening out his jacket. "There's a cafe right down the street. We can walk."

"I'm not sure this is a good idea," Stiles says. "We're coworkers."

"Ingenious observation," Peter comments. "What are you so afraid of? That you'll start to like me?"

What he's afraid of is that that would be just the tip of the fucking iceberg. "I'm really not."

Peter grins, and something about it makes Stiles feel like he's about to be knocked out and stuffed into a meat grinder. He leans in until Stiles can smell the cologne under his ear.

"Prove it," Peter says.

\--

"—he's just so infuriating," Stiles says as he rips open a few sugar packets and pours them into his coffee. "Every day after lunch he goes to _floss_. Who does that? Who flosses after lunch?" He sticks the cup's lid between his teeth, fumbling to pump a few drops of creamer in as well. "I don't even like talking to him about his weekend, so you can imagine how much I like delivering shit to him."

"But anybody other than Greenberg," Peter says, "you wouldn't mind if I asked you to bring them some files?"

"If you weren't the one asking, I wouldn't mind," Stiles says, taking the lid out of his mouth and popping it back onto the cup. It’s just a regular black coffee, but Stiles is regretting not getting the priciest thing on the menu ever since Peter ended up paying for them both. And also a few scones, a danish, and those overpriced cookies by the register.

"Because I push your buttons," Peter says, and annoyingly enough, he actually sounds flattered.

"Yeah," Stiles says. Peter's eyes are expectant, clearly waiting for some further expounding. "I just think I know what kind of person you are, that's all."

"What kind of person I am," Peter repeats. Again, he doesn't sound irritated. It'd be nice if he was, then maybe he'd leave in a huff and Stiles wouldn't have to look at that spot on his chest that the open buttons on the top of his shirt reveal anymore. "And what kind of person am I?"

They settle down at a table by the window, one tucked away from the chattering crowd filling up the cafe. Something about it feels uncomfortably like a date, a revelation that isn't agreeing all that nicely with Stiles' stomach, which feels oddly... fluttery. Aswim. Nauseous? He shouldn’t have agreed to this. Why is he so easily goaded?

"Can I just take a guess?"

"Go ahead."

Stiles leans forward on the table, steepling his hands together under his chin. "Your parents spoiled you rotten as a child because you, a privileged, lucky man, were born into a fantastically rich family—so rich that your ancestors probably shit pennies—and now here you are, the result of too much coddling, too much money, and too many Mercedes convertibles, to say nothing of too many servants, which explains why you treat me like your underpaid secretary." Stiles extends his arms. "How was that?"

"That was lovely," Peter says. "Although it does sound a bit like a sad, under-budgeted screenplay. I hope that's not a passion you're pursuing." He smiles. "Outside of your doodling at work, that is."

"You know about that?"

"For the record," Peter continues, very conversationally, "my family is dead. And I'm not much into convertibles."

Stiles lifts his coffee to his mouth, then sets it right back down. "What?"

"The majority of my family was killed in a fire that struck our house a while back."

"Wait—you mean that huge fire that was on the news years back? That was _you_?"

"It was."

"No way,” Stiles says. “Every kid in town knew about that. There were a million different stories about why it happened." Stiles tries to remember it, and finds it was longer ago than he had realized. "The teachers in my school tried to turn it into a lesson—I think that someone was smoking on the porch and didn't put out their cigarette. It was a pretty effective no-smoking campaign for a bunch of third graders."

"As flattered as I am that my grief terrified many a child once upon a time away from cigarettes," Peter says, taking a leisurely sip off his cup. Stiles doesn’t know how he's doing it; his own is still at lava temperatures and would probably burn off his tongue. "It wasn't an accident. It was arson."

"Seriously?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Peter says. "Our house wasn't exactly in the middle of town and people liked to talk about why it was so tucked away. When people talk, rumors abound. When rumors come up, kids start poking around hoping to give themselves a good scare." He leans back in his chair, eyes slanted like he's trying to recall the specifics. "I believe someone spread around the idea that our house was haunted and my family was made up of supernatural creatures. Now, most of society is above this kind of nonsense when it's heard at the grocery store gossip corner—but some of them are more susceptible. And one of those people decided to do something about their irrational fear of the big bad house in the middle of the woods."

Stiles doesn't even know what to say. It all happened so long ago, all he remembers are kids making jokes about it, people using it as an amusing cautionary tale. And worst of all, this is making Peter seem so much more like a real person, not just some massive obstacle whose sole purpose is making Stiles' workday that much harder. It was all easier when he was this two-dimensional bad guy. Now Stiles has to take the past and emotion and loss into the equation, all of it making Peter infinitely less terrible. Fuck.

Stiles is starting to feel like a bit of an asshole. Okay, so Peter's still kind of a dickhead, but he shouldn't have made so many assumptions about him and his money and his family and his apple pie childhood which was actually full of arson and death and pain. He feels the inexplicable urge to reciprocate.

"My mom is dead, if it makes you feel better," he says.

Peter looks at him oddly, head tilting left. "It doesn't." He puts his elbows on the table, leaning in closer. "Did you think this was a competition?"

"No," Stiles says, wondering if his mouth will ever work properly again and say relevant things. He occupies it with his coffee, which has cooled down enough to drink. "It was more of a—of a misery loves company kind of thing."

"Was it?" Peter asks. He smiles, then leans in even closer to slide his hand over Stiles'. He squeezes it. "All right. I appreciate the company."

His hand slips back over to his side of the table and Stiles is left to wonder if that was a come on or if he's just hopelessly self-absorbed. It's been a while since someone's seriously flirted with him, and maybe he's just completely lost the ability to recognize it when it's happening and now he's imagining things.

"So what happened?" Stiles asks. "After your family died. After the fire."

"Funerals. Healing." Peter's mouth twitches. "Life insurance."

"And somehow all that lead to… finance?”

“If you’re good at it,” Peter says, “it can be fulfilling. And almost always is.”

“And what, you’re good at money?”

“I am. I’ve already found ways to save the company thousands of dollars just by cutting down on unnecessary spending.” He grins. "Like hazelnut creamer."

"I'm still upset about that, by the way."

"You like holding grudges, don't you?"

"No, I really don't," Stiles says, because he isn't, he's never been that kind of person, but things are just different with Peter, Peter takes his usual personality and twists it up and frustrates the hell out of him in so many ways. "You're just easy to be upset with."

"I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I thought you might.”

Peter smiles at him across the table, and Stiles smiles back, and before he realizes what’s happening, what is probably ten years passes with them just _looking_ at each other, eyes locked and lips tipped into grins, and to the watching outsider, this would look _awfully_ romantic. Like they’re two guys on a third date having a cup of coffee and mentally both preparing to get lucky. Stiles jerks back in his seat, realizing he’s unconsciously leaned forward on the table, and downs the rest of his coffee in one fell swoop, all the grainy bits at the bottom rushing into his mouth.

"All right, admit it," Peter says as Stiles tries to dig coffee bits out of his teeth with his tongue. "I'm not awful."

"I never said you were awful," Stiles says. "Other similar things, maybe." Like heartless, or cold-blooded, or an inhuman snake. "That bit about your family really—I was just surprised by it." He narrows his eyes. "You better not have made it up all just to have me like you."

"You're either outrageously paranoid or extremely full of yourself," Peter says. "So you like me now?"

"Jury's still out on that one," Stiles says. "Let's see how you do with that shirt."

\--

When Stiles comes into work the next day, there's an ironed, crisply folded, very familiar button-down shirt sitting on his desk in a gift box. It has a little note tucked between two of the buttons that reads _Stiles, here you go. It's clean and slightly less horrible, but in my opinion, still unsalvageable._

It takes a bit for Stiles to realize that he's smiling down at said note like a lovestruck dope. He then drops it like it's a flesh-eating cockroach.

This can't be happening. Stiles can't even entertain the idea of this happening. He can't actually be falling for all of this ridiculous schmoozing and drycleaning and all the expansive tricks Peter has up his sleeve. The guy is an asshole, and Stiles should remind himself of that every time he goes to make himself coffee in the cafeteria and has to use vanilla creamer, and the subpar vanilla creamer at that because they've now dropped all name brands and gone straight to the generic shit.

The thing is, it's one thing to masturbate to the mental image of the guy, appreciate the muscles and the body and _those eyes_ for what they're worth, but it's another to actually start having _feelings_ for this guy outside of a strictly imaginary, sexual nature.

"Whatcha got there?" Isaac's voice says, taking Stiles completely by surprise. He wheels around to where Isaac's leaning against the cubicle wall.

"Nothing," Stiles says, even as his hands are full of shirt. "I mean. Nothing exciting."

"Is that your ruined shirt?"

"I, well. It's not ruined anymore."

A funny quirk to Isaac's smile tells Stiles that he really should've stuffed the damn thing under his seat the second Isaac rounded the corner. He comes closer, picking up the sleeve and examining the pristine, newly stainless front. "Uh huh," Isaac says. "How'd that happen?"

The gift box it's wrapped in isn't helping Stiles lie about this either. He scratches his forehead, crumpling up Peter's note in his fist as he does so.

"No big deal. Peter got it cleaned."

"He did?"

Isaac looks positively giddy, like he can't wait to send out a mass email in which he details how red Stiles got in the cheeks while talking about Peter's unexpectedly kind deed. Whatever he's assuming here, he's wrong. Stiles isn't enamored by any of this bullshit, he doesn't have a totally inappropriate office crush, and this shirt means nothing.

"Listen," Stiles says, pointing his finger at Isaac. "He's not a good guy, and don't go telling people that I think he is. He's still the same asshole that makes me bring him coffee and took away all the nice toilet paper. This—" he moves his hands around the shirt he's just dropped onto the desk "—means nothing to me."

"You sure about that?"

" _Yes_ ," Stiles says, and entertains for one brief, crazy moment the idea of throwing the shirt in the trash to emphasize this statement, but it's a nice shirt and he's finally gotten it back to a wearable condition so no, he'll have to find another way to prove himself. "It's a dry cleaned shirt, not a freaking love potion."

"But you find him attractive."

"Yeah, so?"

"And now he's doing nice things for you."

"I don't know if I'd go that far, he's just finally grown the manners to own up to his rudeness."

"And it's obvious that he's into you."

"No, no, now wait a second—"

Isaac does not wait a second. "And that you're into him."

"Okay, stop there," Stiles says hotly. "Even if that were true—" it is, but he's not giving Isaac the glory of being right "—which it isn't, I wouldn't do anything about it. I could get fired, and I don't know about you, but I like being able to pay bills."

"Come on." Isaac rolls his eyes. "Who the hell would tell on you?"

Stiles has definitely pissed off enough people at this place by purposefully deleting important emails or taking the last doughnut or stealing office supplies that he by no means is ruling out the tattle-taling, to say nothing of the bullies he's done absolutely nothing to who'd probably still enjoy seeing him walk out with a hung head and a box of his belongings, like Jackson.

"It doesn't matter," Stiles insists. "It doesn't even matter because _nothing's going on between us_." He shoves the neatly pressed shirt aside and grabs his mouse and pretends to be doing something that requires lots of clicking on his computer.

"This is kind of sad to watch," Isaac says. “You cockblocking yourself like this.”

“I’m not—” Stiles bites down hard on his tongue before he accidentally lets it slip that he spent last night at a coffee shop with Peter talking about their pasts. The merciless teasing would have _no end_. “I’m going to back to work,” he says instead. “You should follow my lead.”

“Fine, if you think you can handle your big crush without my help,” Isaac says, walking away.

“I don’t have a crush!” Stiles yells after him.

“Stilinski,” Finstock’s voice says behind him, and it’s only when Stiles whips around and sees Finstock standing there, eyebrows furrowed, that he realizes perhaps this isn’t the best time or place to be yelling that. Why do people keep sneaking up on him like this today? Has his peripheral vision completely stopped working? “Keep your personal life out of the office, would you? Bottle that shit up.”

“Gotcha, boss,” Stiles says, wanting to crawl under the desk just a little bit and hide behind the computer tower where it’s warm.

He looks over at the shirt haphazardly shoved under his monitor, no longer wrinkle-free, and unclenches his fist around Peter’s note, which is also no longer wrinkle-free. It makes him feel funny like looking at it, so he grabs it and the shirt and pushes it into that lower left desk cabinet that’s too deep and too squeaky to put anything in, the one that’s a little crooked and needs a couple of tugs just to get it open. The perfect place for this gift.

It’s fine. Out of sight, out of mind.

\--

For absolutely no meaningful reason whatsoever, Stiles looks up the company rules on dating a coworker, just to make sure. Always good to brush up on company policies.

He learns that a) he's never allowed to come to work wearing a hat, b) heaters under the desk are forbidden, and c) inter-office relationships are a no-no. And not just a kind of sort of vaguely enforced no-no. A big no-no.

Naturally, Stiles is not disappointed. That rule has absolutely no effect on him. Everything is fine. He definitely doesn't study it for loopholes or anything.

He considers forwarding it to Isaac, but he can already anticipate the repercussions, the first being Isaac demanding to know why Stiles was looking these rules up in the first place, and the second being Isaac pointing out that Stiles has never exactly been a poster boy for rule following before, which most likely would be proceeded by examples of Stiles’ history with very brazen, very fragrant law breaking just for the hell of it.

He decides to keep all this information under wraps. It isn’t important anyway. Stiles literally couldn’t care less. He’s so far removed from this situation and this rule it’s almost funny.

It’s funny. It’s very funny.

\--

It's not that Stiles starts dressing better. He’s always a snappy dresser, despite what some people might say. If anyone were to ask, he would strictly deny any and all rumors that he's gussying up more than usual, because he isn't. It didn't even take him that long to find his tightest—typically reserved for the club—jeans this morning as he was putting his outfit together. And it's not like he's doing it in the hope that he'll get someone's attention. That's ludicrous.

“What's with these pants?” Isaac says immediately on Friday morning when Stiles debuts his skinniest jeans at work. “And are you fucking wearing wingtips?”

“These are my normal pants,” Stiles tries to insist. “Stop staring.”

“I would if your crotch wasn't so damn in my face in these jeans,” he says. “Is the back assless? Zero percent of me would be surprised if they were.”

“Nothing is assless. Good god.”

“You're not trying to impress a certain someone with these, are you?”

“Today's lunch special is macaroni and cheese,” Stiles says loudly, hoping to maneuver the conversation far, far away from assless pants as quickly as possible. “We should go before they run out.”

“Scott and I have a meeting that's running through lunch,” Isaac says, still frowning at Stiles’ legs. Goddamn, his eyes are up here. “And aren't you expected at the strip club downtown?”

His pants are really not that tight; he swears they're not that tight. Are they seriously that tight?

“Fuck you,” Stiles says. “Fine. I’ll go to lunch alone.”

He starts to feel just how tight his pants might actually be once he sits down to eat and has maybe one too many pizza slices and the waistband of his jeans starts cutting into his skin, and yeah, okay, maybe he can’t have an indulgent lunch if he’s going to wear these. He wriggles in his seat, wondering if it’s a smart idea to top off with the pizza crust and risk splitting seams.

"Where's your squad?" Peter says, wavering by Stiles' table with his food.

"Stuck in a meeting," Stiles says. It's awfully quiet around here without Isaac to poke fun at him all day long, but that isn't something he's ever going to admit out loud.

Peter, meanwhile, as if invited, is sliding into the seat opposite of Stiles', placing his tray on the table. Stiles wishes he had that kind of confidence, that kind of brazen certainty that encourages you to sit wherever you want with whomever you want. The more and more he sees of Peter, and the more he learns about him, the more he's impressed by him. This can't be good. The company policies flash behind his eyes like a horror movie you just can't shake even days later. 

"I was going through some old files today," Peter starts, ripping open a package of dressing and dribbling it over his salad. "Did you know that Jackson has been using company funds for weekly massages and claiming them as business expenses?"

"I can believe it," Stiles says.

Lydia walks into the cafeteria, side-by-side with Allison, fierce as ever in burgundy pumps and a blazer. Stiles waves; she waves back and keeps moving.

Peter seems to be paying attention, because when Stiles goes back to his tray, Peter's looking over his shoulder at where Lydia's standing in the lunch line. He turns back to Stiles. "Dipping your pen in the company ink?"

"What? No. It's not like that," Stiles says. He can't tell if Peter's just asking or if he's mentally putting an HR report together. He shakes his head. "I asked her out once but—it just didn't work. She wasn't into me."

"Why not?"

"How should I know?"

"Why didn't you ask?"

Stiles shrugs, not sure he even has an answer. Because he didn't want to bother a girl who had just rejected him? Because it didn't seem socially acceptable to ask for an explanation? Because he was afraid of the answer?

"I don't know. Seems kind of weird to ask someone why they're not into you." Stiles drags his fork through his peas. "Are you planning on reporting me?"

"For what?"

"Inter-office relationships?"

"Hard to report a nonexistent relationship," Peter says. "Besides, you do realize I'm not here to police you? Your rule breaking isn't something I'm being paid to observe."

"Are you sure? Cause the longer you talk, the more you sound like a spy." Stiles leans in conspiratorially. "I'll never tell you about the embezzling scheme."

"I'm fairly certain I could get you to talk," Peter says, and something in the base of Stiles' brain explodes. "Don’t you think?”

“Torture’s illegal in America,” Stiles says.

“Torture’s effective,” Peter says. “But other things are too.”

This is—Peter is legitimately trying to kill him. Talking like this while Stiles has food in his mouth is a _choking hazard_. A little bit of corn goes down Stiles’ windpipe and he has to spend the next twenty seconds hacking it back out as discreetly and silently as possible.

“You all right?” Peter asks at one point.

Stiles flashes him a thumbs up. “Fine,” he eventually gets out of his mouth. “For the record, I don't believe you.”

“With what?

“That you wouldn't report me for the hell of it. I'm pretty sure if I steal so much as a paperclip from the storage closet you'll be tattletaling on me.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

“Nobody likes a snitch,” Stiles says anyway.

“I have no desire to have you fired,” Peter says. “I like seeing you around here.”

“Wow. Was that a compliment?” That, or Peter just likes having someone around to do his bidding.

“Feel free to take it as one.”

“I think you can do better,” Stiles says, and then out of fucking nowhere—

“Do you want to get a drink after work today?”

Stiles fumbles to push the rest of his forkful into his mouth without food spilling everywhere. “Uh,” he says, and maybe he should chew and swallow first. He does, with some degree of difficulty. “You and me?”

“Unless you’d also like to invite the queen?”

“I, well. We are pretty close buds, but I think she’s busy today.”

“Perfect,” Peter says, getting to his feet and grabbing his empty tray. Is this happening, did that really just happen? Why does Stiles feel like the pants are the ones to blame? “Tonight at seven, the bar off of Widmer street.”

He walks away before Stiles can respond, which is somehow both infuriating and oddly arousing, and it’s making Stiles start to wonder things he really shouldn’t be entertaining while sitting out in the open in the cafeteria, like if Peter’s the kind of person to take charge in the bedroom and lick Stiles’ dick into his mouth without having to be asked to. Holy shit, he needs to stop that train of thought _now_.

He probably shouldn't go. It's probably a bad idea. All this fraternization outside of work would only lead to trouble, especially since Stiles is already sort of ankle-deep in shit as far as Peter goes. He has the feeling that if he goes tonight to the bar, he'll be upgrading to knee-deep.

A few weeks ago, he was daydreaming about crushing this guy’s head in a paper shredder. What the fuck happened?

\--

Stiles goes home after work and spends a valiant seven or so minutes pretending to figure out if he'll go meet Peter at the bar or not. He already knows perfectly well that he will because he's weak and has no self-control, but it makes him feel like a better person to at least act like not going is a possibility.

It isn't. After all, the guy just dry cleaned Stiles' favorite work shirt. It'd be rude not to go. He tells himself as much as he gets ready, staring into his closet and wondering if wearing the skinny jeans—even skinnier than the ones he wore to work—that might as well be spandex would be inappropriate for tonight.

Besides, it's _after work_. There's no rule that says that colleagues can't fraternize for a friendly beer when off the clock, and Stiles should know, because he combed that policy manual pretty damn thoroughly. It's just a drink. Just two guys having a fun evening.

He'll just go for an hour or so and that'll be that. He’ll leave after a polite amount of time has passed and beeline home and it'll all be very, very simple. Stiles tells this to his reflection about three times as he changes his clothes once, twice, right around four times, and pretends to believe it.

He’s still mentally chanting it to himself as he drives there and locks the car. Maybe, if he’s lucky, this evening will expose all the terrible, awful traits Peter has that always come out when you get a little too close to a coworker and slowly realize they’re secretly a horrible person, like perhaps he’s a rowdy, obnoxious drunk with no sense of manners, or maybe he’s a compulsive gambler, or maybe he’s rude to the wait staff, or maybe he’s been hiding away rampant racism under his sleeve.

Stiles can’t believe he’s hoping for Peter to be racist. This is bad.

He sees Peter at the bar almost immediately once he arrives. The line of Peter's back is undeniable in that tight shirt, no blazer collar hiding his neck and sort of making Stiles want to bite marks into the nape until he’s fully tasted Peter’s skin, but he keeps himself in control and walks as nonchalantly as possible over to the bar.

“Hey,” Stiles says as he slides onto a stool next to Peter.

“You came,” Peter says, sounding quite pleased. There’s a half-drunken glass of what looks like neat scotch curled in his hand and Peter’s phone is open on the counter on Instagram, which for whatever reasons, surprises Stiles. What kind of photography does Peter put on Instagram anyway? Who does he follow?

“Seems like I’m behind on the drinks,” Stiles says. As if on cue, the bartender shows up wiping a glass clean. “Can I get a beer?” The guy nods, leaving Stiles to watch Peter scroll through his Instagram feed for a few more seconds before shutting his phone off. He catches a few glimpses of what seems to be foodie shots and absolutely refuses to be endeared by that. “I gotta say, kind of surprised you invited me here.”

“Don’t be. I’ve been meaning to for a while,” Peter says, tucking his phone into his pocket, and it’s stuff like that that makes Stiles have to reconsider what tonight actually is, a date or a friendly gathering or a hook-up or _what_. “I just decided to hold off until all your… unnecessary hatred toward me melted.”

Stiles huffs. “The _unnecessary_ is wildly inaccurate, but okay.”

“It's very much accurate. I've been nothing but a peach to you.”

“Oh really?” Stiles challenges. “Define _peach_.”

“A sweet, soft fruit that can be eaten with or without its peel,” Peter says. “Next.”

“Didn't realize you were a comedian.”

Peter lifts his glass up to his lips, smiling around it after he takes a sip. “There's a lot you don't know about me, Stiles,” he says, and either Stiles’ head is unfairly messing with him or Peter's voice just took a turn for the low and sultry.

Dear god. This was such a bad idea.

“Thanks for the shirt, by the way,” Stiles says as the bartender slides a foaming glass of beer over the counter to him, eager to change the subject before he gets a boner right here in front of Peter. Again. It's like he's somehow fourteen again with no control over his body. “Can’t even smell the cappuccino anymore.”

“I’m happy to hear it,” Peter says.

“It’s a start,” Stiles says. “I have some animosity that I need to chip away at first. All the calling me into your office and forcing me to do your chores and _getting rid of the hazelnut creamer_ , for the love of god—look, I have to ask.”

Peter raises his eyebrows.

“Why the fuck are you so hell-bent on annoying me?”

Peter looks at him like Stiles is the dullest crayon in the box. “Because I like you, Stiles.”

“I—what?” Stiles says. "You like me?"

"I do." Peter's still looking at Stiles like he should've figured this out earlier. "You're amusing. You're clever. You get riled up so easily."

Stiles spends the next minute fighting the pull to revert back into a kid from middle school because the urge to ask if Peter _like-likes_ him or just _likes_ him is slapping him urgently in the face. He’s treading in dangerous waters here—quicksand, most likely—and he’s pretty sure now is his last chance to turn back before he reaches the point of no return. Unless he’s already passed that a long time ago, which is definitely an option.

It’s just treacherous to indulge in shit like this. It’s innocent enough to admire someone’s ass from afar. It’s a little less innocent to be getting chummy with them in cafes. It’s a whole new level of hazardous once they start drinking together and flirting—at least, this feels an awful lot like flirting. It’d be pretty embarrassing if Stiles is reading this completely wrong, but he doesn’t think he is, and what the fuck does he do with that exactly? Pretend it isn’t happening? Follow his dumb, dumb instincts and do something about it?

“You like me,” Stiles repeats, and Peter nods. Fuck, this means Isaac was actually right. “You could show it a little more.”

“Oh, I think I'm showing it plenty,” Peter says. There’s a smile on his face that’s almost predatory, unfairly enticing, and much too arousing. He puts his drink down. “How about a darts rematch?”

So yeah. Predicting that he would end up knee-deep in shit was probably a little optimistic. Stiles is guessing neck-high is more accurate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit you guys, THANK YOU for all the patience and positive responses to this story. You have no idea how nice it was to enter into the land of wifi and immediately getting to see all these sweet comments in my inbox for the first chapter. So, once again, THANK YOU ALL!
> 
> I had an absolutely incredible vacation and as sad as I am to have it be over, I'm excited to keep this story going, and I hope you all are too! We are officially back on track with weekly updates now that I'm home and have all this jetlag in the rearview mirror (almost).

Friday morning begins with an impromptu meeting called by Finstock before Stiles can even wait for Facebook to load all the way. He's not a fan of these early announcements where everybody is crammed in the hallway before anybody’s even had their morning coffee, partly because he's still half asleep and it's too goddamn early, but mostly because he's suspecting that the big news will be yet another cutback. Stiles has his money on the air fresheners that currently sit in the bathrooms.

Turns out, he’s very wrong.

“As you all know,” Finstock tells them all. “The time for our corporate offices to annually breathe down our necks is back.” He heaves a sigh. “They’re especially interested in how we’re combatting these… financial setbacks we’ve been dealing with lately, so this little conference should be lovelier than usual.”

Stiles is hardly listening, just stifling yawns and thinking about if his thirty-plus tabs on Chrome have loaded yet. Blah, blah, finances, blah, blah, big bosses, blah, blah.

"So,” Finstock continues. “Peter's going to be checking in with our location up north in San Fran to talk money and needs a gofer to come with him and basically drag papers around.”

"I'd be happy to come along," Jackson says immediately, at which point Stiles starts imagining all sorts of happy scenarios in which Jackson falls off a San Francisco cable car never to return to Beacon Hills to bother Stiles again.

"As much as I appreciate your enthusiasm, Jackson," Finstock says, shrugging, "Peter specifically requested that Stilinski come join him."

All eyes in the office seem to swivel over to Stiles. He blinks, suddenly a little warm in the face and much more awake than he was a moment ago. "Wait—what?"

"Peter asked for you to come with him," Finstock says. "And that’s a free train ticket, so don’t say I never gave you anything, Stilinski.”

A fair ways behind him, Stiles hears Jackson complain about favoritism in hissed whispers to whomever will listen, and as annoying as his teacher's pet act is, Stiles can't entirely disagree with him. Stiles has no clue why he's coming along on this trip. He always wants to every year and of course never does; the spots are always reserved for someone much higher in the workplace food chain than Stiles who knows what they're doing and makes triple figures and even has a company iPad. Why the fuck did Peter pick him?

Stiles looks at Scott to silently convey this question, and Scott seems just about as puzzled as he is, shrugging his shoulders.

“The rest of you,” Finstock continues, “need to send all of your budget papers over to Peter pronto before that happens. The trip’s tomorrow, so you have the rest of the workday to compile your numbers if you haven't yet.”

“Wait, tomorrow?” Stiles says as the crowd disperses. He can't be expected to do that. He needs at least forty-eight hours to mentally prepare for the idea of traveling the west coast with his hot coworker before said traveling actually begins. No, no, no, there's no way. He approaches Finstock, feeling a little frantic. “That’s—it seems a little soon.”

“It's one measly night in San Francisco, Stilinski,” Finstock says. “Just set your DVR to record what you'll miss and reschedule whatever pictionary game night you had planned.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, bristling.

“Just do it,” Finstock says, voice solid in its decision, and he gives Stiles a sharp, wide-eyed, stern look that makes it clear that backing out isn't an option. “It's a free trip. Say thank you and move on.” He thrusts a train itinerary in Stiles’ hands. “Tomorrow morning, nine a.m., Beacon Hills station. Do your job.”

He walks away before Stiles can pull some lie about having to bring his sick father to the hospital for a colonoscopy out of his ass as a reason not to go, leaving Stiles’ mouth working wordlessly at thin air. He turns around to look for a friendly face, for someone who might have an excellent excuse for him as to why he’s physically incapable of attending this trip, and all he sees is Jackson sending him the stink-eye like he’s trying to pulverize him into bits using just sheer force of will.

He can’t believe that if it were up to him, he’d let Jackson have this one. And he usually does his best to avoid facilitating Jackson’s happiness whenever possible.

“I’m not happy about this either,” Stiles tells him.

Jackson gives him an icy look that seems to say _I’ll bet you aren’t_ , the sarcasm dripping out of his curled mouth, and thunders off.

“Really,” Stiles says at his back, helplessly at best.

\--

Stiles has no fucking clue what to pack for a work event that's also, bizarrely, doubling as a getaway with someone he's been daydreaming about seeing naked. It feels like an impossible situation, one half of him leaning towards no-nonsense blazers and the other half ready to pack his sexiest underwear. Surely there’s a middle ground. Surely there’s a solution here, one other than Stiles deliberately jumping off his balcony to break one of his limbs to avoid going.

He stares at his closet for too damn long, so long that he's surprised a What Not To Wear spinoff TV show hasn't materialized in his bedroom to speed things along. It takes him another eternity to finally reach that careless point of indifference that inspires him to just start picking outfits at random, which seems to work just fine up until Isaac interrupts by calling him.

“What do you want, Isaac?” Stiles asks, holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder while he throws t-shirts into a duffel bag.

“I’m just here to remind you to pack lingerie,” Isaac says. “And probably also condoms. Lots of condoms.”

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Stiles says.

"Hey, nothing's funny about keeping protected. You don't know where that guy's been."

"I'm hanging up."

"Don't let him see that weird freckle on your thigh!" Isaac yells, which is the last thing Stiles hears before he hits _end call_ —a smart choice—and cuts Isaac off.

There's not going to be any sex. Yes, there is something a little sexy about train compartments and sharing a hotel in San Francisco, but they're _coworkers_ going there to _work_ and the second Stiles lets his brain dip itself into the edge of the erotic fantasy pool, he's setting himself up for disappointment. And also imminent failure, because he'll end up so very fired. So that's a firm no on the sex.

He packs condoms anyway, though, not because of Isaac and most certainly not because of Peter. Maybe he'll meet some handsome roller blader by the hotel that he'll hit it off with. Maybe he'll meet a cute bartender interested in nameless hook-ups. Or maybe his self-restraint will snap like a rubber band and he _will_ sleep with Peter.

No, no, no. Stiles can't let himself wind down this road, even mentally. He does his best to occupy himself with packing, making sure he has all the right pills and enough clean pants and a working inhaler, tuning out any and all thoughts about him and Peter fucking. It's not going to happen. He's going to leave his sexy underwear at home to make sure of that. Just because he won't be in the office doesn't mean he won't be surrounded by the rules of the office. He should really tattoo that on himself somewhere to make sure he remembers.

It's just a weekend trip to San Francisco. He can handle this.

\--

Come the next day, Stiles is not so sure about that anymore.

He thinks about flaking out as heaves his bag into his car and imagines all the ways this trip could go horribly wrong. The train ride is only about two hours, but it still feels like two hours too many to be spending with a colleague who Stiles has been sexually fantasizing about. He makes his way to the train station with palpable dread moistening his neck, secretly wishing that all train tracks will have just… stopped working today. That might work. That would be ideal. Who could he pay to make that happen?

It's a short-lived dream, one that dies a quick death when Stiles walks in the station and sees Peter a moment later standing by the train schedule. Then Peter looks over and sees him too, heading over to him, and so much for that last resort plan to duck behind someone and hide.

It isn't helping that Peter's travel outfit includes a low-cut cardigan and what seems to be nothing at all underneath, snug jeans, and leather loafers. He also has a chic pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses hooked into his cardigan's pocket, which paints a sexy-librarian-on-his-off-day image that Stiles really didn't need today.

"You made it," Peter says.

“I did,” Stiles says, although he’s really wishing he hadn’t. All he can look at is the bit of Peter's chest exposed under his cardigan. Doesn't he own t-shirts? Any at all?

He swallows. Not a great start, then.

They file their way into the train, sliding into opposing seats so Stiles doesn't have to feel Peter's thigh pressed against his for the entire ride, and wait for the millions of people and their long list of pets and relatives to file their way into the train. Peter takes a book out of his bag—a sleek, deep gray leather briefcase that Stiles imagines a rich, evil politician carrying—and gets to reading once the train lurches into action. Stiles catches a glimpse of the title: Wuthering Heights. He closes his eyes, needing a moment to compose himself because apparently, underneath all that professional, financially responsible, annoyingly clever skin, Peter’s something of a romantic.

“You—you’re really,” Stiles says, watching Peter unfold a bookmark from the pages. “You really read—I mean.” He shakes his head. He’s worried that if he pursues this line of conversation, Peter will accidentally end up revealing that yes, he loves period romances, and he actually once starred in a local community theater play of Much Ado About Nothing, and then Stiles will be picturing Peter in costume tights, and there’s just no coming back from that. “Never mind. Can I ask you something?”

Peter looks up from his book. The glasses suit his face much too well to be fair, possibly legal. “You can,” he says.

“How come you invited me?"

"I needed a lackey."

"Okay, fine, but why me? Specifically me?" Stiles asks. "Jackson was tripping over himself to do it and kiss your ass."

"I can think of better things to do than have Jackson kiss my ass," Peter says.

"There's something we agree on," Stiles says. He grins, and realizes Peter's watching it carefully, watching the smile spread across his face. He clears his throat. "So why?"

"Because I like you," Peter says. "I told you that before."

"I—oh. Okay." Stiles says. "So you, what. Want to be friends?"

Peter smirks. It looks like he's holding something back here, like Stiles isn't ready to handle what he wants to say, and it really makes Stiles want to strangle him. Right here. Even with all these witnesses. "Yes, Stiles. I suppose I do."

"So this isn't you trying to make up for all the douchey things you've done to me? Starting with that cappuccino to the shirt?"

"You can think that if you want to," Peter says. "But I definitely made up for that abomination of a shirt a while ago."

"Yeah, what about everything else?” Stiles asks. “Like turning the office into an igloo?"

"Pardon?"

"The place is fucking freezing all the time," Stiles says. "It’s like working inside a cooler. And what about the shitty toilet paper?" He can think of about a dozen more things he could bring up right now, but he holds back to refrain from sounding like a complaint box. "There's a lot of stuff you should be begging for forgiveness for here."

"I'm not one for begging," Peter says, closing his book on his thumb, like he's expecting Stiles to unload many more complaints. He leaves the glasses on, though, the fucker. "But I can assure you that this trip is not an attempt at earning your forgiveness."

"Okay," Stiles says, suddenly not sure if that's a good or bad thing. "So what, you're just being nice?"

"No, I'm just being smart," Peter says. "You're a good employee, Stiles, and that's what I need here. A good employee."

“A good employee?” Stiles repeats. “You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“You sure it's not a good barista?”

Peter smiles. “You're that too,” he agrees. “But on this trip, I'll be utilizing some of your other talents.”

God, that sounds wrong. In literally the best of ways. Stiles looks away before Peter sees the blush crawl up his cheeks, looking steadfastly at the blur of scenery whizzing by outside the window. He should've brought a book. Or a sketch pad. Or sudoku, and Stiles absolutely hates sudoku, but it still would be better to occupy himself with that than to be sitting here stewing in all of Peter's potentially lewd comments.

He hates that he doesn't know for sure, if he’s really being flirtatious here or not. He still can't quite figure out if Peter is genuinely interested in him or if all this suggestive teasing is just another facet of his personality, something he does with everybody who gets as worked up and red in the face as Stiles does when he flirts with them. He might just, maddeningly enough, be enjoying himself watching Stiles squirm.

Stiles also hates that the only reason he hates all this in the first place is because he’s invested, just like Isaac keeps saying, just like he’s been denying. If someone like Greenberg was the one throwing weird innuendos around at him—which okay, weird image—Stiles would laugh it off without another thought. But this with Peter, this gets under his skin. And that’s really fucking bad. And the reason why he was considering feigning a kidnapping scandal just to avoid this trip.

Stiles fiddles with a stray thread peeking out of the upholstery of the seat he’s on, and purposefully doesn’t keep the conversation going.

\--

Stiles dicks around on his phone for the duration of the train ride, keeping himself occupied with Bejeweled and occasionally sneaking glances at Peter while he reads. He would made an unfairly sexy college professor, Stiles thinks, without meaning to, and then forces himself to go back to his phone.

It doesn't help that when they get off the train, he and a hundred other passengers all seem to be seized with the impatience to get off as quickly as possible, cramming everybody into a slow-moving line along the train’s tiny aisle that somehow results in Peter's chest squeezed against Stiles’ backside like they've been plastered together with glue. Stiles breathes through his nose and just tries to remind himself that things could be worse: he could be _behind_ Peter right now inadvertently rubbing his half-chub against Peter's ass instead of in front of him. Silver linings.

His semi goes down, thankfully, before he steps off the train, all thanks to carefully thought-out mental images of cows giving birth to ease away the evidence, and they head for the hotel. It's a nice hotel, one that Stiles is surprised the company sprung for, what with the fact that there's marble flooring in the lobby and soft jazz playing in the elevator. Stiles can appreciate the irony, if nothing else, considering they’re here to talk finances.

It’s also an unexpected but welcome blessing that the two of them are on separate floors. Stiles was already picturing nightmarish scenarios of adjoining rooms while on the train, a nightmare that is thankfully not prophetic. Stiles drops his duffel bag off on the third floor and leaves Peter in the elevator to head all the way up to the ninth floor, and that’s six whole floors of buffers. Sexual buffers. Stiles has to work his way through all those floors and all those rooms before he gives in and makes a pass at Peter.

It’s a comforting thought, one Stiles reminds himself of as he reunites with Peter in the lobby after unpacking. He’s changed, exchanging his cardigan for a crisp button-down presentable for the office, and has traded in his readers for sunglasses, ones that make him look like he’s a in perpetual Lenscrafters commercial.

Stiles thinks about cows in labor again.

“So,” Stiles says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “We have some time before we have to be at the office. Can we go see Alcatraz or something?"

Peter slips his sleeve out of the way to check his watch. "You really want to see Alcatraz?"

"Yeah. Thought I could leave you there. Imprisoned."

Peter smirks, pulling his sleeve back down. "How about a ride on the cable cars?" he offers. 

"Yeah, okay."

\--

They end up waiting in a short line to hop on a cable car, only one large tourist family preceding them. It's a nice day outside, sunny and warm and blue skies stretching up above, and it makes Stiles glad he's here, especially when the alternative is sitting stuffed in an office doing work. This is definitely more enjoyable.

The family claims the seats on the side, leaving Peter and Stiles to hang off the end and hold onto the poles. It’s the perfect day to do this, only the slightest of breezes ruffling them, not too many tourists out and about, and Stiles grabs on and waits for the car to start chugging up the hill.

He takes a few pictures of the early morning colors, of the sun sliding over the bright paint on the houses, and Peter slips into a few of the photographs without Stiles meaning to do so. Just the back of his head, or his profile, but it still feels a little like Stiles is capturing memories of him, which Stiles would delete if they didn’t turn out so nicely. Peter photographs well. He looks good with the California sun on his nose, wind pushing the hair out of his forehead.

Opinions Stiles will absolutely never say out loud.

Rows and rows of old houses slanted on steep hills whizz by, Stiles catching little more than colorful awnings and the occasional curtain in a window and clotheslines drying socks on tiny balconies. The wind is pleasant on his face as the cable car's bell chimes and they roll down another hill, the resistance of the brake taking most of the fun out of it. Stiles wishes it were more like a roller coaster and finds himself missing the fair, glancing over and suddenly wondering if Peter is the kind of person who enjoys thrill rides.

He would ask if it didn't feel like that would make it seem like Stiles is personally interested in Peter and that—well, probably better not to go down that road. Not even a toe should go down that road.

"What do you think?" Peter asks him.

"About San Francisco?" Stiles asks. Peter nods. "I like it. I've been here before—back when I was in high school. I liked it then too. How cool everyone is. I totally wanted to live here until I found out how expensive it was."

"The crowd here isn't too... colorful for you?"

"Colorful?" Stiles' eyebrows furrow together. "No way. Back then I would've killed for something like this. Somewhere with people going through the same stuff as me."

Peter’s quiet for a moment. Then he asks, "And what would that be?"

"Well, being bisexual in high school isn't always met with a parade of support," Stiles says. He blinks, eyes starting to get a little dry with all that wind whipping past his face, and it takes him a little while to realize that Peter hasn't said a word in response. He looks over at him, surprised to find that Peter's staring at him with an unexpected intensity. "What?"

"You've never told me that before."

Shit. He hadn't. And now it's slipped out and Stiles feels his throat lodge up a little with a sweaty little lump of nerves. What exactly was he thinking? Or was he just not thinking at all, which is his usual speciality? “That, uh. That I'm bisexual?”

"Yes."

"Well, yeah. I am." God, this is unbelievably awkward. "It never really came up in conversation, so." He scratches the back of his neck, looking anywhere but Peter. There's a kid down the cable car who's sticking his gum onto the seat, so he watches that instead, squinting against the sun. "What about you?"

"I'm gay," Peter says.

If he was eating food right now, he'd need to be heimliched.

"Oh. Oh." Stiles doesn't remember the last time he's been on such an emotionally loaded ride. He's sure this cable car has seen many a coming outs, but he's pretty certain most of them aren't between two coworkers who just happen to be divulging extremely personal information to each other while on a business trip. "Oh."

Why can't he think of anything else to say? He's had conversations before, at least one or two, not that it currently seems like it. He spares a glance at Peter, and yup, there's that weird look he was anticipating. 

"Is that a problem for you?" Peter asks.

"What? No. No. I mean. Good for you."

Good for you? Is his brain incapable of forming normal sentences and replies?

“What I mean is—I mean, what I should’ve probably said. I mean. Ignore me,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Must have train brain or something.”

“Train brain?”

“Yeah. It’s when—when your brain gets all scrambled from, uh. Spending too long in a train.”

“Not a thing.”

"It is," Stiles insists, looking away to hide the redness probably infiltrating his face. "Whatever. You're not an expert on everything." He pretends to check his watch. "Shouldn't we head for the office soon?"

“You’re just dying to get started on work, hmm?” Peter asks. “Enjoy the ride.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Stiles tries to. It's just hard when he's on a work trip with a coworker that would easily be a romantic vacation with a lover under literally any other circumstance, not to mention that he’s just revealed his sexual orientation to said coworker for no discernible, logical reason at all. He thinks he's losing it a little bit.

Maybe Stiles just has to get out of his fucking head so much. Maybe he just really does have to enjoy the ride.

He looks down the hill, listens to the car chug its way upward, watches the man running the brake move it every time the slope changes. He wonders if he should tell Peter that he's not always like this. That he's usually the funniest, most easy-going, pleasantly careless guy in the world, but that Peter just—shakes him up a little. Maybe makes him nervous. There's just something about him that lights Stiles’ brain on fire and turns him suddenly into a tightly clenched weirdo whenever Peter appears. He doesn't know what it is, he just. He just can't seem to do anything about it.

Probably better to not tell him any of that, Stiles decides. Better to have Peter just think he's a hopeless oddball.

\--

So they head for work after the cable car drops them off on the other side of town. They take a taxi up to the building and are lucky enough to have a driver who feels the need to narrate like a tour guide as they drive through the city, filling the silence Stiles would have had trouble getting rid of otherwise. Fact of the matter is, Peter's dropped a bomb on him with this sudden, unexpected coming out on a cable car of all places, and Stiles needs a moment to fucking _process._ He'd even text his friends if he didn't already know exactly what he'd get back.

Duh, Isaac would reply. Of course he's gay. He's obviously into you. Now go fuck him.

He spends the ride trying to figure out the best way to be nonchalant about all this while also considering if this changes anything as far as their relationship goes—logic and company policy says no, but Stiles' gut and nether regions say yes—while the driver waves out the window to point out random landmarks. Stiles nods along, pretending to be listening, doing his best to not admire Peter's thighs and the suit cupping them. Peter's upped the ante with his wardrobe for this visit, his suit sleeker and crisper than anything Stiles has ever seen him in. It's also dead sexy, which doesn't help anything at all.

They make it after twenty minutes—it should've taken fifteen, but they were treated to the scenic route—at which point Peter settles the cab fare and Stiles gets out of the car to stretch his legs. He's never been to the San Francisco location before, and looking at it now—the tall building, the modern parking garage, the big windows—he's reminded that he always wanted to come here. He'd never been picked to come along on these trips before, and honestly, why would he, what with how inconsequential his work with the company is, and now he's here, and even with Peter's explanation on the train, he's not sure why. Stiles might be a “good employee” but there most definitely dozens of people better and prompter and more efficient with their work than Stiles is.

"Hold these, would you, Stiles?" Peter says, handing him a few folders as he gets his briefcase out of the trunk. “Ready to get to work?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. “Am I under dressed?”

Peter looks at his jeans and t-shirt and scuffed sneakers, the only thing missing the old sweatshirt he left back at the hotel. “Perhaps a tad,” Peter says. “Take my jacket. It might add some class to your outfit.”

He starts to slip out of his blazer and Stiles immediately panics, because no way can he handle wearing Peter's clothes and smelling his cologne and feeling like one of those couples who shares a closet. “No!” he yells. “No. No, I'm fine. I mean, this isn't the White House. Maybe everyone's in jeans.”

Unlikely, but it's fine. Stiles would rather walk around in his underwear than wear Peter’s clothing, or worse, his shoes, because then Stiles will know what size shoe Peter wears and if phallic myth is to be believed, that's not knowledge Stiles should ever torture himself with.

“Scared of cooties, are you, Stiles?” Peter asks, eyebrow cocked.

“No. No. I don't believe in cooties, and I don't believe in Santa either.”

The eyebrow goes ever higher. “Santa?”

“You once—you kind of implied once that I believed in Santa. And I didn't get a chance at the time to make it clear that I don't.”

“I see,” Peter says. He looks like he's holding back a smile that's tickling his entire face. Stiles is going to flush himself down the next toilet he finds. “Glad you cleared that up. Shall we?”

He gestures to the building. Stiles nods, pulling himself together, and hopes he can make it through the day without any more garbage spilling out of his mouth.

\--

It actually ends up being an extraordinarily busy day. The presentations all run longer than expected and Peter feels the need to introduce him to every single suit he's schmoozing with and Stiles ends up doing a lot more than just gofer work like he was promised. The office here is nice, definitely bigger and cleaner and classier than the Beacon Hills location, but it's also running a lot faster, like a well-oiled machine. It actually makes Stiles miss the rusty, never-greased machine he left behind at home, if only because he'd never have time to slack off on Twitter if he was a cubicle monkey here instead of under Finstock's watch.

"This is hard work," Stiles complains, stretching in between presentations. "Finstock told me that I was really just gonna do easy stuff."

"Hmm,” Peter hums. “I believe someone told me lately to stop wasting your potential..."

"Ah. Should I even bother to ask who?"

Peter grins. "An unbelievably proud coworker of mine," he says, then leans in a tad closer, "who happens to make excellent coffee."

"You're not even kind of funny, you know that?"

"Mm, I think I am."

Then some boss men in ties walk in the room and Peter transitions back into a smooth, charming businessman that Stiles just hates he's impressed by. It makes him realize two things, one being that Peter can be incredibly, frustratingly smooth when he wants to be, and the second being that the version he shows Stiles is completely different from the overly charismatic face he’s putting on for the people working here. It’s like this is his professional self, and Stiles is privy to his personal self, or possibly his friend self, or maybe something else entirely, and that’s a rock Stiles both wants to peek under and run away from. He hasn’t decided yet.

Speaking of looking under rocks that would've been better off left alone, Stiles has the misfortune of discovering here that Peter is actually good at what he does. He watches Peter pull up slide after slide of budget presentations, explaining away numbers that look like Greek to Stiles, detailing plans to fix the problems, mapping out the good parts that need maintaining, advising on everything from executive spending to intern salaries. Stiles is impressed, and really wishes he wasn't.

They talk numbers for what feels like forever. Stiles is even involved; tons of people in suits who probably make triple his salary ask him his opinion on things, and Stiles follows along and pretends he knows squat about budgeting and finances. His bullshitting doesn’t seem to be too far off the real thing, though, because nobody looks at him like he’s speaking gibberish. Most of the time, Peter just jumps in after about five minutes or so and adds in his two cents and springboards off from there, which forces Stiles to accept that Peter, for as much shit as Stiles gave him when he first arrived at the company, actually has an entire set of skills and knowledge that Stiles has zero clue about. He might really be _smart_.

And God, that’s exactly why Stiles shouldn’t have come, and it doesn’t even have anything to do with how fucking good Peter looks in a blazer. He didn’t anticipate this _at all_. Learning that Peter is intelligent and capable and actually talented.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Do you want to go get dinner?" Peter asks after they’re finally done with their long afternoon of presentations and charts and graphs, slipping on his jacket.

"Uh, you mean together?" Stiles asks, unnecessarily. "Like, now?"

"Unless you'd rather have dinner during breakfast time?"

He should really decline. Say he's not hungry. Say he's tired. Say he's scared of being trampled by an LGBT parade. Point is, he and Peter have already spent dangerously enough time together today as it is.

"Uh, okay," he says instead, completely ignoring his common sense, like fucking always. "I'm game."

"Where do you want to go?"

Stiles tries to bite away the smile tickling his mouth. "Company paying?"

Peter lets the smile Stiles is trying to hide unashamedly out. "Of course."

"Then how about lobster?" he offers. "How does that sound? Or really high-end sushi?"

“Come on. I know a place.”

\--

They end up at Pier 39. It should make Stiles feel super touristy, but somehow instead, with the soft lights and the cute shops and the couples walking by them hand-in-hand, it ends up feeling horribly… romantic. Like they’re on a date. Like they’ll go see some cuddling sea lions and kiss by the Golden Gate Bridge later.

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks as they pass a variety of novelty shops. “A hot dog vendor?”

“Not quite,” Peter says. A hand touching the small of his back leads him slightly to the left, where there is—

“The Hard Rock Café?” Stiles says. “I think we need a fanny pack and a disposable camera before we go in.”

“It’s an experience,” Peter says. “Come on.”

\--

Stiles hates a little bit that he's having such a good time with Peter. It's almost annoying just how well he and Peter get along when they're no longer restricted by work and office hierarchies and coffee orders, how funny Peter is when he shares stories of old companies he used to do budgeting for, how nicely they play off of each other. There's a TV hung over their table playing the Funky Town music video and a plate of appetizers sitting between them and a full restaurant of laughing tourists around and this is somehow the best date Stiles has been on in a long while.

Wait a second, what? This isn't a date. Why the fuck is Stiles’ brain thinking it's a date? Erase, erase, erase.

“—a good date, don't you think?”

“Huh?” Stiles says, dropping the straw wrapper he's been playing with.

“March first. For the next San Francisco conference.” Peter's eyebrows angle downward. “Were you listening?”

“Yes, yes. Of course I was listening.” Stiles straightens up his spine. The next conference, of course. That's a better thing to focus on than Stiles’ dangerous, budding attraction for someone he works with and is now starting to actually like. God, was shit easier when Stiles just mindlessly hated him. “That should probably work.” He realizes something. “Are you still going to be here then?”

Peter smirks. “Are you counting the hours until my time at your office is over?”

“No,” Stiles says, and then just because he can't help himself, he adds, “More like the minutes.”

“Ah. Naturally,” Peter says. His foot nudges Stiles’ ankle under in the table in what is probably meant to be a completely harmless teasing gesture that Stiles still manages to completely overthink and unnecessarily sexualize. “I actually don't know when I'll be leaving. It depends on how much work there is to do.”

“So you could be gracing us for the next few decades, is what you're saying?”

“Would you like me to?”

Stiles opens his mouth, once again completely struck with just how flirtatious Peter’s words might or might not be, but he's saved from answering when the waitress comes up to the table with their food. Stiles takes the golden opportunity to shut up presented to him in the form of salmon and mashed potatoes as the miracle it is and dives in immediately to avoid replying.

It also helps that the food is extremely good. The fish is flaky and there's a kick to his mashed potatoes that makes them unique and even the asparagus on the side is pretty tasty and the daiquiri he thought would be a good idea to order is the best of all, and even all the eighties music booming overhead is starting to be enjoyable.

Stiles looks over at Peter, at the facial hair on his jaw that would burn just right, and then quickly looks down at his salmon and thinks about what it is he’d _really_ like to ask right now. Peter dropped a tsunami on him this morning with that unceremonious coming out on the cable car, and it’s been eating him up since like a possum gnawing on his leg. He has so many questions he _knows_ he can’t ask, all of them ultimately boiling down into the same thought: is any part of Peter attracted to Stiles? There was of course always a possibility, but now that possibility has multiplied tenfold because Peter’s actually playing on his side of the ballpark, and all of this is going to make Stiles completely explode out of frustration and the Hard Rock Café is going to spend months cleaning his innards out of the booths.

“What’s on your mind right now?” Peter asks, driving Stiles further to that explosion point.

“Just, um,” Stiles says, sticking his fork into his fish. “How good this salmon is.”

“See? This restaurant was a good idea.”

“Yeah. I guess. Company notwithstanding.”

“Your wit,” Peter says, “knows no breaks.”

“That's right,” Stiles says. “Keep up, dude.” He shoots Peter a look of pure patronization. “Don't feel bad. We can't all be this silver-tongued.”

“Or humble,” Peter says. “Another rare trait.”

Stiles laughs without meaning to. He keeps trying to rein himself him, remind himself that he left his sexy underpants at home for a reason, but the longer he spends with Peter, the more comfortable he gets, the more he forgets the regulations. Peter just looks so good here, sitting under the sepia lamplight with a five o’clock shadow accentuating his chin in all the right places while Mr. Mister plays. 

_Is it love, is it love you're after_ , blares through the speakers, and Stiles can't believe he's at a point in life where eighties music can narrate his thoughts so well.

“So how long have you worked with the company?” Peter asks at one point. “For a while now?”

“Eh. Around three years.”

“And you’ve never thought about going on to brighter pastures?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like it’s my dream job or anything, but all my friends are there.” Stiles grins, grabbing a fry off of Peter's plate. “All my enemies too.” He has to admit, it’s almost fun having someone like Jackson always around to roll his eyes at. “What about you? Do you want to be a finance analyst forever?”

“I’m a budget consultant,” Peter feels the need to correct, cutting Stiles a quick look before continuing. “I don’t mind the work. It’s fairly satisfying.”

“Yeah?” Stiles sneaks another fry away. “How’s it going right now, anyway? You gonna gut a lot more?”

“Not as much as I originally expected, but I will be advising on some… removals.”

“Sounds painful.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“So you gonna tell me what I can mourn next? Maybe my Christmas bonus?”

Peter’s foot nudges Stiles’ under the table again. “Stiles,” he says, leaning slightly closer. “We don’t have to talk about work.”

If they don’t, Stiles is slightly concerned that he’ll inadvertently wheel off into a tangent about Things He Really Shouldn’t Talk About, like a coworker’s sexual orientation and who and who they are not attracted to in the office.

He spends a longer time than necessary chewing on a bite of fish, finally biting the bullet and asking, “What would you rather talk about?”

Peter shrugs. “You, perhaps.”

“Why?” Stiles narrows his eyes. “Is this for some kind of psych eval you’re doing on me?”

“I’m just interested.”

“In me?” Stiles refuses to feel flattered or flirted with. That’s a one-way ticket down a drain that leads to a gutter he’s sure he won’t be able to climb out of. “What do you want to know?”

"Anything interesting," Peter says. "How about, why do you go by Stiles instead of your first name?"

"Because my first name is a nightmare," Stiles says immediately. The song playing on the TV one booth away switches from Is it Love to Land Down Under, and Stiles has to admit, the tunes alone are making this place worth it. "How do you know about my real name?"

"Saw it in your file," Peter says.

"Uh huh. You look a lot in my file?”

“Whenever given the opportunity," Peter says, smiling.

"Knew it."

\--

They walk around for a little while after dinner. It's dark by the time they leave, but the pier is lit up nicely with lights strung from the shops and the railings, making everything all the more romantic and hence all the worse for Stiles. It's at the point where he'd almost expect a man with a violin to follow them around while someone else sprinkles rose petals on their path.

The biggest problem here is that Stiles is _really_ enjoying himself. It'd be much better if this entire evening was boring and Peter was driving him up the wall and he was itching to go back to the hotel and bury himself in the sheets and sleep all this off. Instead—well, instead he gets this, which is Peter being interesting and fun to talk to and the surroundings being awfully conducive to a sexy moment or hand holding or making out under the San Francisco sky. Stiles stuffs his hands in his pockets to avoid any grabbing for his fingers that might occur and makes a personal promise to himself to keep his lips in check.

_You're wearing the ugliest underwear you own_ , the smart side of Stiles’ brain brings up, and yes, that's a wonderful reminder. Just what he needs right now.

"So what, this job doesn’t get lonely?” Stiles asks as they stroll down the wharf. “Jumping from one job to the next, fixing up budgets?”

“I'm hardly _lonely_. Although it may be hard for you to comprehend, I do interact with people outside of work,” Peter says. “I do just fine.”

“You do just fine, huh?” Stiles repeats. “Somehow it’s hard for me to imagine you having that many friends.”

“Who says they’re friends?” Peter says.

“Oh. _Ohhh_.” God, is Stiles lucky that it’s too dark out here for Peter to see him turn tomato red. “And how’s that going around here?”

“In Beacon Hills? Not too bad.”

“Yeah? What are your moves?” Stiles isn’t sure this is even something they should be talking about, let alone dwelling on and veering into, but he’s not exactly prone to making smart decisions around Peter and he had a pretty strong daiquiri with dinner that’s lessening his inhibitions. “Show me your moves.”

Peter looks at him. “You really want to know?”

Stiles is stupid enough to nod. “Yeah, I do.”

Peter pauses, like he’s hesitant to share his trade secrets, but eventually gives in. “I offer massages.”

“You—what?”

“I tell someone they look tense. Then I put my hands on their shoulders and they melt. Every time.”

“No way. That’s ridiculous.”

“It works,” Peter says. “Here.”

He steps behind Stiles, slipping his hands around Stiles’ shoulders and squeezing, thumbs digging in just right, and holy shit, why is he so good at this? And why is he _demonstrating?_

“Hnn,” Stiles says involuntarily when Peter’s knuckles graze over a knot he didn’t realize he had between his shoulder blades. His eyes flutter for a moment when Peter’s palm slides all the way down his spine and back up again. He hates that this is working.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says. “You should—you can stop that now. Really.” He tries to shrug Peter off before this gets a little too erotic, even though it’s already threatening to be.

“What do you think?”

“Sounds like you found your back-up career in massage therapy,” Stiles says, hastening to put a wide, lengthy distance between them again. “But, uh. As a move? I’m not impressed,” he lies.

“Hmm,” Peter says, and it sounds like he’s perfectly aware that Stiles is fibbing through his teeth. They fall back into step down the street, Stiles still trying to shrug the tingles out of his shoulders. “I have another move. I usually keep this one fairly close to the vest, however.”

“I’ll keep it top secret if you tell me.”

Peter smiles at him. It seems like a private smile, like something he doesn't show to just anyone, and Stiles is close to barreling himself off this wharf. 

“All right,” Peter says. “When I’m driving with a date, I pretend to have car trouble. And then we pull over and I pretend to fix it and it impresses them.”

“Wait—what?” Stiles says. “Are you kidding me? You turn yourself into a grease monkey just to increase sex appeal?”

Peter shrugs, shameless. “You’d be surprised what rolled up sleeves and dirty hands can do to a person’s libido,” he says. “And having that skill, it’s attractive.”

“The pretending-to-be-a-mechanic skill?”

“Feel free to judge if you want. It works.”

“It’s just so stupid, that’s all,” Stiles says. “I’m not saying my moves are any better, but seriously. The mechanic fake-out?”

“Tell me some of yours.”

No, no. That sounds like a terrible, awful, no-good idea. Then Stiles makes the mistake of looking at Peter and there's that smile again, most likely infused with some dangerous witchcraft, and Stiles caves.

“I don’t know—I try to make people laugh, I guess,” Stiles says. “I might have a go-to joke.”

“What is it?”

“It’s stupid.” Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. Is he really talking about this with Peter? “I come up to someone and say… am I cute yet or do I need to buy you a few drinks first?"

"That's terrible," Peter says.

"I know. I know." Stiles won't even get into the corny jokes he actually managed to grow out of. That magician phase he had after high school is never to be spoken of again. "But they laugh because they don't know what to say and the ice is broken."

Peter looks like he's trying to hide just how charmed by that he is. Stiles has never been good with flirting, with making that great first impression. He's always relying on people sticking around and eventually figuring out what a gem he is. That kind of concept probably blows Peter's mind, because he's the kind of man that people trip over themselves to ask out. He's tall and well-groomed and seems like a hot catch up until he starts talking and all that jerkass spills out, and Stiles is basically the opposite. He wonders, insanely, if they might balance each other because of that.

Peter flags down a cab after they walk down the length of the pier's shops and reach the spot where it's nothing but boats upon boats tied up at the dock, swaying in the dark sea, and they squeeze into the backseat together and make it back to the hotel well past eleven o'clock. The lobby is still brightly lit, though, and Stiles, with that daiquiri buzzing inside himself, doesn't feel very much like sleeping yet.

Peter seems to read his mind, because he turns to Stiles and says, "Nightcap?"

"What, you packed alcohol?"

He smiles. "The hotel stocks the fridge, Stiles."

"Those things are crazy expensive."

"Company’s paying.”

This is such a bad idea. Doesn’t every porno start this way? Free booze, a nice hotel room, and a coworker. This is so, so, so bad.

“Okay,” Stiles says, because he is so, so, so stupid.

The elevator ride up gives him both the time and the chance to back out of this bad decision and just go the fuck back to his own room, but like the idiot he is, he doesn't grab the opportunity presented to him and instead lets Peter lead him over to his room with a hand between Stiles' shoulder blades. He slips a keycard out of his pocket and opens the door up for the both of them, revealing a suite that makes Stiles' room like a refurbished broom closet. 

Stiles follows him in. So much for all the sexual buffers separating them.

"Woah. Your room is way nicer than mine," Stiles says, eyes sweeping over the ginormous TV and the wide patio and the million velvet pillows laid out on the bed. The carpet also doesn't smell like cheap cleaning materials and there's a complimentary bathrobe hanging up by bathroom door which Stiles kind of wants to stuff under his shirt and smuggle into his own room, so it's pretty clear that he got the short end of the stick with the hotel accommodations.

"Well, I am much more important."

"And humble," Stiles says. "Don't forget humble."

Peter toes off his shoes and takes off his jacket, a sight that feels oddly sensual for some bizarre reason. Maybe because asking someone to come up to your hotel room for alcohol reeks of a pick-up line? Maybe because something about the way Peter's strutting around this room is just inherently sexy? Maybe because Stiles is already a little buzzed and should've said no when offered a nightcap?

"How does a fine wine sound?" Peter asks from where he's rooting around in the cabinet next to the mini fridge. "A vintage, perhaps?"

"Fancy," Stiles says. He takes a seat on the bed, the mattress bouncing beneath him. "And pricy. The most I've ever spent on a bottle of wine is seven dollars."

"Pardon?"

"And anything more is a rip-off," Stiles declares with a cheeky smile, winking and then promptly wondering if winking at a coworker whilst in their hotel room prior to drinking a romantic few glasses of wine is pushing it a little bit. Probably yes. "It's just grapes, you know."

"Not quite the same thing," Peter says, deciding on a bottle and pulling it out from the shelf. "There's quite a process that has to occur before grapes can become something as elegant and delicious as a bottle like this." He uncorks it, pours two tall glasses, then slides one under Stiles' nose. "Smell it."

Stiles takes the glass and inhales the scent. "Ah. Hints of almond. And lemongrass. And perhaps raspberry." At Peter's furrowed brow, he adds, "I'm bullshitting here."

"Hard to miss," Peter says. "Did you know I considered becoming a sommelier?"

"I believe it."

"It's all about appreciating the drink," he continues. "The scent, the color, the undertones. Letting all your senses in on the experience."

He swills his glass back and forth, the wine splashing around the rim. 

"When I was fifteen, my family went to Florence for a few weeks in June. I had my first ever glass of wine then." Peter smiles. "Nothing is quite like Italy in summer."

_What about San Francisco right now?_ Stiles' tipsy brain brings up but makes the smart choice not to say out loud. Peter clinks his glass with Stiles’, taking a sip and encouraging Stiles to do the same. Stiles does so, trying to let the taste wash over his palate instead of letting the alcohol swim into his bloodstream, but both seem like futile endeavors. All he tastes is wine, regular red wine save for a hint of sweet cherries, and nothing finer than that.

"And?" Peter asks.

Stiles smacks his lips. He wonders if they're already stained red. "This could be a five dollar bottle from Costco for all I know," he says.

"It pains me to hear words like that spoken."

"Yeah, yeah, get your pretentious ass down from that pedestal," Stiles says, taking another sip. It's not bad. "This is your real move, isn't it? Impress people with your knowledge of fine wines and then get them drunk on said fine wine."

"So I'm impressing you?"

"No. No." Stiles wonders if he's answered that too quickly just now. Just in case he has, he goes into his default mode of using humor as a shield for everything and slips briefly into a pompous, high society accent. "It might work on lesser men, but not I. Not I, sir."

"Of course," Peter says. "Your taste of Costco alcohol has refined your palate too much for you to charmed by this."

"That's right."

Peter chuckles, then lowers himself onto the side of the bed Stiles isn't lounging on. Even with the distance between them, it feels inherently sexual, and Stiles can’t help his ridiculously stupid wandering imagination—he just can’t help but think how easy it would be to grab Peter by the collar and pull him on top of him and wrap his legs around his waist and grind against his crotch and make out until he’s blue in the balls and—

“We stopped by Rome too,” Peter says, reminding Stiles to spend less time fantasizing and more time grounded in reality unless he wants to pop a stiffy. He folds one leg on top of the other, just in case. “The colosseum is always bigger than you think it’s going to be. You climb out of the metro, round a corner, and there it is, towering over you. It’s incredible.”

“Uh huh.” God, is Stiles’ mouth dry.

“I’d like to go back. But vacation always seems out of reach with work, doesn’t it?”

Stiles tries to alleviate the dryness with a long gulp of wine. It’s not a great idea, because the wine is pretty strong, and now he’s swapped a thirsty mouth for a tickling of dizziness. Because being drunk around Peter is exactly what he needs right now. “We’re kind of on vacation right now. Ignoring the bit where we were at the office earlier today, but. Right now.”

“Mm. You’re right,” Peter murmurs. His eyes are trained on something that definitely aren’t Stiles’ eyes—is he staring at his lips? Dear god. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

“Yeah, but.” Stiles scratches at the side of his head.

“Hmm?”

“What you told me on the train,” Stiles says. “Was that really true? About inviting me here because I’m a good employee?”

Peter smirks. It gives Stiles the clue that he’s not going to get a straight answer out of him. “What do you think?”

“I think—” Stiles doesn’t know what he thinks. Or maybe he does, but he’s not sure he should be saying it out loud. “I think you’re messing with me a little bit.”

Peter takes a slow, leisurely sip from his glass. It leaves his lips just a slightly bit redder, slightly more tempting. “It amuses me.”

Yeah, obviously. If only Stiles was in on the joke.

"Listen," Stiles says, holding onto his glass as if for support. "A little while ago we were talking about dipping into the company ink, and I was just wondering." He tries to find the right way to word this and ends up drawing a blank. "If maybe you were, you know. Talking about, well."

"About?"

Peter's staring at him with an intensity that's sobering. Stiles rolls his lips into his mouth, losing his nerve.

"Never mind," he says, setting his drink down on the night table. That's probably enough alcohol for today. For the entire week. For literally whenever he's around Peter again. "I should get back to my room."

"Turning into a pumpkin again?"

"Just tired," Stiles says, although pretty much his entire body is buzzing right now with something that's the complete opposite of exhaustion. "Thanks for the overpriced booze."

He gets to his feet, feeling the daiquiri from before down to his prickling ankles that suddenly don't seem so steady underneath him anymore. Peter sets his own glass down as well, standing from the bed.

"Stiles," he says just when Stiles starts hustling to the door, suddenly so close. He touches Stiles' arm, the kind of searing touch that could probably burn holes through his shirt. Stiles is aware of every single square centimeter of contact and hates himself for it.

Stiles gulps and swears the sound must be audible from here to China. "Yeah?"

Peter squeezes his arm, and then his hand falls away. "See you tomorrow."

God, Stiles wants to kiss him. If he was just a little bit tipsier and a little bit braver he would do it, he'd just throw caution to the wind and ignore how stupid it would be and just go for it, just grab him by the shirt and kiss those wine-colored lips until they'd be making out against the wall. And maybe that's what Peter wants too, because why else would he have invited Stiles up here for a drink long after work hours are over? Why would he have invited Stiles to San Francisco at all? 

“Right,” Stiles says. Is the room moving or is that just his brain right now spinning in overdrive? He reaches for the doorknob behind his back. “Uh. Lobby around eight?”

“Make it seven eight thirty, and I’ll treat you to breakfast,” Peter says.

“Super,” Stiles says. “All right, well. Goodnight.”

He looks at Peter’s lips, briefly, and then immediately regrets it. He turns around, fumbles to open the door, and heads for the hall, for _safety_ , for some place where Peter isn’t standing close enough to touch and make out with.

\--

They meet up for breakfast the next day. Stiles’ alarm wakes him, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is and what he spent last night doing and who he was with the whole time. The only plus is that he’s not hungover from the wine and the drink he had during dinner, even though that would probably numb some of the pain that comes with the knowledge that he was so unbelievably stupid last night.

What was he thinking? Seriously, what was he thinking? What happens in San Francisco stays in San Francisco?

Stiles reminds himself of just how much he likes his job and working with his friends and being employed while he gets dressed that morning, and by the time he grabs his duffel and key card and heads downstairs, Peter’s already there in the lobby, leaning against his suitcase. It's almost a little uncomfortable looking at him, a wave of embarrassment washing over Stiles as he immediately relives the wine and the way he was sprawled over Peter's bed and how he was one bad decision away from passionately ravaging Peter last night. And now he has to look him in the eye and have breakfast with him like everything's hunky-dory.

“Sleep well?” Peter asks.

“Yeah, you?”

“I did,” Peter says. “I’m amazed you didn’t come down here in sunglasses.”

“Ha, ha. You didn’t feed me that much wine.”

“Next time, perhaps.”

Stiles does his best to smother the tingle that crawls up his back at that comment. He’s starting to think that Peter just likes to see him flustered, or that he just flirts with everybody, or that he’s secretly trying to get Stiles fired and that’s been his goal all along, because Stiles can’t be misreading all of these coy comments and innuendos. There's just no way.

“Breakfast?” Peter offers, slipping his hand briefly over Stiles’ back.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Stiles twists away from the touch. “You’re bankrolling, right?”

“My treat.”

Peter steers them over to the hotel’s breakfast buffet, which actually smells pretty appetizing. Stiles loads up on eggs and bagels and sausages from the buffet and even indulges in a little hair of the dog with a morning mimosa to ease up his headache, creating a spread that ends up being much more extravagant than the frozen waffle his breakfast at home usually consists of. It's especially satisfying to watch Peter slip over a company credit card for payment, which makes Stiles think back to just how much everyone at work is suffering without the good toilet paper and the snacks at meetings and the free Costco membership and how all of these sacrifices are now essentially paying for Stiles’ elaborate vacation.

Not that this has been a particularly stress-free vacation. As a matter of fact, Stiles thinks his back might be more of a seized-up chunk of tight muscle than ever before. It's his own damn fault, but still.

“This was… a nice trip,” Stiles says after he's finished his French toast and has moved on to his eggs.

“It's not over quite yet,” Peter says. “There's still the train trip home.”

“Right. The peak of any vacation.” Stiles shakes his head. “Whatever. It was nice.”

He's not sure he's being entirely honest here. It definitely was nice, but there's something inherently dangerous about being somewhere so far removed from Beacon Hills with Peter longer than twenty-four hours. Being away from work, being away from _reality_ , being in their own little San Francisco-colored bubble, it's almost encouraged all the forbidden things between them Stiles very much feels but refuses to acknowledge. He remembers, more clearly than he remembers anything else last night, just how badly his body ached to pounce on Peter in his hotel room, knock over the wine, kiss him without finesse, and rip his clothes off. That kind of thinking just wouldn't happen at home in Beacon Hills.

Well. Not as much, anyway.

“Happy to hear it,” Peter says. “Surprised, but happy nonetheless.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” Peter says, mouth quirking as he cuts into his sausage. He holds his cutlery exactly the way you’re supposed to, knife nestled all properly into his hand, and Stiles looks away from his fingers. “You’ve seemed to have made it your mission to complain about everything that involves me in any shape and form ever since we met.”

Stiles’ mouth opens. “That’s not true,” he says. Yes, he complains about Peter a lot, but Peter has no fucking clue what Stiles says about him when he’s not around, especially to his own head. Maybe that’s a little weird, that Stiles says the rudest things straight to Peter’s face and keeps the nicest—and sometimes dirtiest—things to himself. It’s probably supposed to be the other way around. Talk shit behind someone's back and smile at their face.

“Oh, it is,” Peter insists. “What I’m trying to figure out is if it’s childishness or… something else.”

“Fine,” Stiles says, refusing to let Peter wander down the _something else_ path. “I’ve been a little hostile. But things have changed, you have to admit that. We’ve been getting along recently.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Peter says. “How come?”

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, pushing toast into his mouth. He’s almost positive he doesn’t want to get into it, not here over breakfast, not at the office, not ever. He doesn’t know what it is; something about wanting to bone someone just naturally makes you kinder to them. Maybe it’s all part of some evolutionary trait that encourages reproduction.

“I don’t know. Same reason as you.”

“Same reason as me?”

Stiles stuffs the last of his toast into his mouth to give himself a moment to chew instead of talk. “Yeah. Remember that—that stuff you said on the train. About wanting to be my friend,” Stiles says, fiddling with his fingernail as he talks. “That still something you want?”

“It is,” Peter says. “Listening to your horrible opinions about fine wine didn’t change that.”

“Okay, well,” Stiles says. He has no clue if he’s digging himself his own grave here or just being the mature person his father encouraged him to try being. Why do adult decisions feel like that so often? Either so very off-track or frustratingly mature and therefore most presumably the right thing to do. “I’m open to trying that out.”

Peter smirks. “Friendship?”

“With you, yeah,” Stiles says. “I’ve buried my hatchet. So just don’t do anything stupid again to make me hate you.”

“I’ll do my best,” Peter tells him. He glances up at the clock on the wall. “Train leaves in twenty minutes. We should get going.” He wipes his mouth clean with a napkin, balls it up to leave on the table, and gets to his feet. “And watch out for that train brain this time.”

“Ha, ha,” Stiles says, stuffing one last piece of scrambled egg into his mouth. “It’s real.”

“Of course it is,” Peter says. “Come on. We have a train to catch.”

\--

So they become friends.

It's weird, because there's still some integral part of Stiles that feels as though he should hate him, except that some of the things he started out hating he's now tolerating. Or worse, can't stop thinking about. Like Peter’s annoying suits and how nicely they curve around his ass. And that obnoxiously predatory grin. And that little bit of chest hair that Stiles can sometimes see when Peter’s shirt isn’t buttoned up all the way.

Okay, so being friends with him is probably just a really stupid idea of Stiles', that's all. He's acknowledging it and putting that on the record for posterity's sake so his grandchildren won't judge him one day.

They exchange numbers on the train ride home—or rather, Peter puts his number into Stiles’ phone when he isn’t paying attention and takes down Stiles’ as well—and that feels like a pretty solid commitment as far as friendship goes, because you don’t give your number to just any random coworker. Peter’s now fair game to text when he’s bored or to send ugly selfies to or when he has an extra concert ticket everybody else is too busy to take, and there’s a certain level of apprehension-slash-excitement that comes with acknowledging that Peter is getting more and more ingrained in Stiles’ life. He probably should be heading the other direction, but, well. He’s not very smart when it comes to making decisions about Peter.

The only plus is that some of that overwhelming, gripping, sexual tension that had clouded around Stiles during the San Francisco trip fades a bit when they come back to work, mostly because Stiles is slapped in the face by reality the second he sits down at his desk and sees that he has over seventy unread emails waiting for him and three mandatory meeting notices.

Oh. And also one invite to a Budgeting at Work: Making Smart Spending Choices seminar that takes Stiles out of his daydreams of fucking Peter in that hotel room with the efficiency of a hammer looking to get rid of a boner.

“Did you get the email?" Scott asks, leaning over Stiles' cubicle wall.

"The seminar invite? Yeah. And then I considered trashing it and pretending I never got it."

"There's going to be food, you know."

Stiles wrinkles his nose. He hates how easily he can be manipulated but really can't do anything to tighten up, not when there are free snacks involved. "Yeah, okay, fine."

It turns out that even the food isn't worth it. The seminar is unbelievably boring, led by a man in horn-rimmed glasses who looks like he just crawled out a wormhole leading to the 1930s. The buffet table—and Stiles uses the term buffet loosely—is stocked with apple juice boxes and low calorie chips. All the good stuff seems to have been swept away before Stiles made it, leaving him to grab a subpar juice box and take a seat near the back of the room. He grabs his phone.

**Stiles @ 11:48am:** _Where are you? I'm saving you a seat!_

**Scott @ 11:50am:** _Can't make it. Grab me snacks!_

**Stiles @ 11:50am:** _You asshole_

He starts typing back that no, he is not going to smuggle out treats for a no-show supposed best friend, and is about to lie and inflate the quality of said treats to make Scott jealous, when a voice says right in his ear, “This seat taken?”

Stiles jumps. Peter's there, one hand curled around the back of the chair Stiles had saved for Scott.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” Peter says. “Did I startle you?”

“No. No. Of course not.” He shifts aside so he doesn't have to feel Peter's breath on his neck, which is more arousing than he'd like it to be. “Seat’s free.”

“Great,” Peter says, and takes that as his cue to sit down.

The last time they've sat this close at any point was on the train, and Stiles immediately—despite trying not to—notices that Peter's wearing the same cologne as he was then. It's a slightly pompous scent that reeks of money that Stiles is unfortunately starting to connote with popping a boner.

If he's hoping that the speaker will distract him from Peter sitting in touching distance to him, that dream gets crushed as quickly as it comes. The guy is hopelessly dull, with a slow voice that could lull a million crying babies to sleep, and with a long, wobbly pointer stick that's more entertaining than any of the budget tips he has to share, all of which border on the edge of obvious common sense. Stiles very quickly loses interest, head tipping back to count stains in the ceiling, hands messing with the peeling fabric on the chair he's sitting on, eyes wandering over to Peter's thighs and the palms curled casually over his knees—no. No, eyes back to the man in the front. He's babbling on about taxes and forms and accounting and things Stiles has never once paid attention to in his life, and how the fuck is he supposed to start now of all times when there are so many Peter-shaped distractions right next to him?

"Mind telling me how we can afford crackpot seminars like this when we're hanging on by a fiscal thread?" Stiles whispers, leaning closer to Peter's chair. "Not that I'm not appreciating the irony of spending money on a seminar teaching us to save money. I am."

"He's not the Pope. It's not like he's getting paid a pretty penny," Peter says.

"All pennies are pretty when I'm the one deciding where to use them."

"You're just still upset I axed the hazelnut creamer."

"Damn right I am."

"Would taking you out for coffee again soothe your ruffled feathers?" Peter offers.

Stiles feels a funny tingle curl up his spine like static electricity. He readjusts on his chair, trying to keep the urge to immediately answer _yes, yes, let's do that, yes!_ at bay. What the fuck is wrong with him?

"I think so," Stiles says. "But I also wouldn't say no to coming into work tomorrow and seeing a tub of hazelnut creamer sitting by my keyboard. You know, as a selfless gift."

"Is that right?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, then scratches above his upper lip to conceal the smile about to creep up his face. He looks the opposite direction, waiting for those ridiculous flutters in his gut to go away, and happens to see Jackson watching them from across the room, which is about the most efficient buzzkill Stiles could've asked for. His eyebrows furrow close together, an unsettling feeling like he's just been caught stealing office supplies prickling his stomach, and he looks firmly away from Jackson's eagle-eyed stare.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“It’s what friends do,” Stiles reminds him.

“Ah, and that’s a privilege I’ve secured?”

“I’m on the fence. Hazelnut creamer, now that would sway me.”

“Ah,” Peter says again. “I admire your technique.”

“I thought you might.”

Stiles sneaks the tiniest of glances back over. Jackson's still looking—leering, more like, and doing everything but taking notes on just how close Stiles and Peter are sitting—and Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his seat, looking away.

Nothing’s happening here, he wants to scream, while pointing right at Jackson to make sure he’s listening. He can’t even articulate just how much of a nightmare it would be for someone to spread a rumor that Stiles and Peter are getting awfully chummy when it isn’t even happening although Stiles wants it to and suddenly he’s being fired over something he would’ve done but ultimately isn’t, and that’s just—this isn’t something Stiles wants to by any means encourage, so he scoots his chair a few centimeters away from Peter’s.

“Draft,” Stiles whispers when Peter notices, of course he fucking notices, and raises one inquisitive eyebrow. “Just a weird draft coming from, uh. Above.”

“You cold?”

“No,” Stiles says quickly, just in case Peter's interpreting this to mean that Stiles is in need of his blazer draped around his shoulders. 

He tries to refocus, to concentrate on that man and his wobbly pointer. Wobble, wobble. Stiles watches it with attempted laser-like intensity. It shouldn't be that hard to think about something other than the daydream of Peter's hand on his leg, warming him up by rubbing his thigh, sliding just high enough to toe the pool of sauciness. It _shouldn't._ Even if his only distraction is a man talking about the nuances of bookkeeping and auditing and is wearing a horrible tweed suit that burns his eyes a little bit.

\--

“So how was your lover’s getaway?” Isaac asks, leaning over Stiles’ cubicle wall. He rests his elbows on top, eyebrows high. “I’m guessing good, since you didn’t find a single second to text me back.”

“We were _working_ ,” Stiles says.

“Sure, working.”

“Yes, _working_. We were there on business. We did business things.” And also had dinner and drank wine together in a hotel room. Stiles chews on the inside of his cheek. “I had an okay time.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

“I’m going to tackle you. Seriously. Right here at work.”

“Did you guys hang out outside of work?” Isaac asks, completely breezing over Stiles’ threat. “A little repeat game of pool, maybe?”

“No,” Stiles says, then does the stupid thing and reveals too much by adding, “We went to dinner, but it was—it was fine. It was nothing.”

A smugness that Stiles could’ve predicted was coming and somehow still wasn’t smart enough to prevent flashes over Isaac’s face. “Cozy.”

“No. No, not cozy. It was normal. Two colleagues. Stop saying I’m crushing on him.”

“I didn’t.”

“You know what I fucking meant. You keep _implying_ that I want to sleep with him and it’s—it’s so off base. Really off base.”

“I’m not implying it, I’m downright stating it,” Isaac says, that lewd grin just not leaving his face. “We all saw you at the bar getting a stiffy while you were playing darts. You want to bone him. You want to play hide the salami.”

Stiles thinks back on that night he was humiliatingly close to grabbing Peter by the shirt and sucking on his bottom lip and makes a mental note to keep that memory under complete lock and key whenever Isaac is in as so little as visual range. He grinds his teeth together until he's pretty sure he can taste bone marrow.

“You'll be saving yourself a lot of trouble by just doing it already,” Isaac says.

“Isaac,” Stiles tries.

“Who was the one waxing poetic about hot assholes in the cafeteria?” he continues on anyway, relentless. “Oh, that's right, it was you.”

A few cubicles away, someone sneezes. Stiles grinds his teeth that much harder. Isaac is about as discreet as a fucking megaphone. “Would you keep your fucking voice down?”

“Fine,” Isaac says, sighing, and pushing himself off the cubicle wall. “Keep on lying to yourself. That'll end well.”

Stiles resolves to steal some of Isaac’s paper clips out of his desk as payback for that particular comment, then does his best to try to shake it off and get back to work. 

He's not lying to himself. Everything is fine. Stiles is the master of his own libido.

\--

Whoever invented pie charts, Stiles thinks, really should have tried harder to make them interesting. Because as it stands, Stiles can't bear to tear his gaze away to anything but Peter's ass.

He's in his presentation pants. Stiles hates that he knows this, but Peter always wears the same pair of well-tailored slacks when he gives big presentations. They're hellishly snug around the butt, designed most likely with Stiles’ torture in mind, and it doesn't help that they curve ever so gently around Peter's thighs, around those thick, distracting, majestic, powerful thighs.

God, is Stiles’ mouth dry.

“There's been real, solid improvement,” Peter says, flicking to the next screen, which is yet another chart that will fail to hold Stiles’ attention. Stiles is starting to realize that there's just not a single chart that will be able to compete with that grand, forcible ass. “The numbers are definitely up, mostly just because of small changes and cutting of frivolous spending on, say, toilet paper quality.”

Someone sticks a piece of paper into the back of Stiles’ shirt, and when Stiles twists around to fish it out, he sees Isaac looking awfully pleased with himself. Stiles unfolds the piece of paper.

_Need a handkerchief for all that drool?_ it says in Isaac’s unmistakable scribble.

“But there's still a lot of work to do here,” Peter says, flattening his hands on the conference table. “Right now we've scraped the surface. We've found pocket change. But this company needs more, and that's why I've consulted with management and we've agreed that my work here isn't done. So you won't be saying goodbye to me just yet.”

Peter's eyes turn to Stiles. Stiles feels compelled to look somewhere, anywhere else.

“I'm sure some of you are more upset about that than others,” Peter says, the cheeky idiot. “Anyway. If you have any questions, feel free to stop by my office. That’s that, back to work.”

A dozen or so chairs scrape against the floor as everybody gets up and heads for the door, and Stiles would be joining them in their haste if not for the fact that he's focused on watching Peter bend over as he closes PowerPoint on his laptop and hibernates it. Peter seems to bend over more than the average person. That, or Stiles just _really_ always happens to be paying attention to when he does it.

Another note lands on Stiles’ lap as Isaac gets up. This one isn't even folded. _Fuck him!!!!!!!_ it says, with seven exclamation points. Stiles balls it up in his fist and stands up, walking over to Peter.

“Hey,” Stiles says as the room starts to empty out. “Nice speech there.”

“Yes, you seemed oh-so-captivated.”

Oh, Stiles was captivated, all right, just not by any of that useless jibber jabber about financial reports. “I was,” he lies. “Especially when you mentioned the part about you staying with us a bit longer.”

“I am,” Peter says. “So you'll have more opportunities to argue with me over absolutely everything I change around here.”

“Hey, your job won't keep you on your toes if you don't have someone like me around to give you a challenge now and then.”

“I'm not complaining,” Peter says, voice soft, and Stiles smiles and tries not to pay any mind to the glaring fact that they're flirting like teenagers bouncing around promposals right now.

“Well, I'm not complaining that you'll be sticking around either,” Stiles admits. “You're a… nice addition to the team.”

“Does that come in writing?”

“No, and no one will ever believe you if you tell anybody I said so.”

Behind them, Isaac clears his throat with the subtlety of a man with a blowhorn. Stiles turns around, half expecting the next not-safe-for-work note to be written on a picket sign Isaac is carrying, reading something vulgar like _WHEN WILL YOU TWO JUST HAVE SEX ALREADY_. He isn't, thankfully, although the unimpressed look on his face speaks the same message to Stiles just as clearly.

“Stiles is thrilled you'll be staying,” Isaac says, slinging an arm around Stiles’ shoulder that Stiles immediately tries to push off. “Take it from me.”

For fuck’s sake.

“Don’t listen to him,” Stiles says.

“Mm,” Peter says. He looks at Isaac like the two of them are in on a joke together that Stiles is the butt of, which Stiles is not a fan of at all. “So you’re not thrilled?”

“I’m,” Stiles starts. He’s warm all over. “I think I need to get back to my desk.”

He hurries away. By the time he's back in his desk chair and has unclenched his fist, Stiles’ palms have sweated enough to smudge all the words on Isaac’s note.

\--

Life is really fucking weird, Stiles thinks as he walks by Peter’s office and realizes that a few measly weeks ago, he was daydreaming about committing arson to Peter’s desk and now, they’ve actually reached a functional, if not overly flirtatious, working relationship. The kind where you actually wave when you see each other in the halls.

The thing is, aside from some pestering thoughts about what Peter looks like naked, just how vigorous he'd be in bed, etcetera, etcetera, Stiles actually doesn't mind him being around. He's kind of funny, in a dry, sarcastic middle-aged comedian kind of way, and he's smart, and he's clever enough to spar wits with Stiles whenever he feels like it. He's also entertaining to text even if he sometimes sends Stiles weird articles on mafia bosses or the history of lacrosse late at night, but even that is kind of endearing because he's doing it because he thinks Stiles might be interested, and how disturbingly nice is that?

All of that's nice. Murder on his cock, but yeah, nice.

He doesn't even remember the last time work was so tolerable. No one’s gone out of their way to ruin anything for Stiles in weeks. No one’s dumped a shitload of work on his desk to get done without a single please or thank you or helpful bribe in a long while. No one’s even been sneaking away Stiles’ pens when he's gone from his desk since forever.

Everything is good. Which is of course why that suddenly has to change.

Stiles is having such a _great_ day, too, when it all happens. Scott brought coffee for everyone this morning and there wasn't even that much traffic on the drive here and Stiles’ inbox has been blissfully quiet all afternoon long, and that's where the good things end, because right after lunchtime he's tasked with printing out some reports, and when he rounds the corner to the printer, Jackson's there.

Stiles would ignore him, as he usually always strives to do, but Jackson won't stop staring. He watches Stiles from where he's a few feet away leaning on the copier with the kind of eyes that he probably stole off a Bond villain, and the longer he looks, the longer he doesn't _look away_ , the more Stiles fears that he's about to be walloped over the skull with a stapler the second he turns his back.

God, is all this glaring unnerving.

"You know, Stilinski," Jackson finally says, flexing his fingers on the copier. "It's not a bad idea. Too bad it isn't going to work."

Jesus Christ, it's too fucking early for this. Stiles entertains the idea of leaving here and now and coming back for the printer when there isn't a coworker he wants to clock in the face hanging around—when is there not—but his curiosity keeps him in place. He sets his jaw.

"What are you talking about, Jackson?"

Jackson grins; it's like he knows that he has Stiles hooked and wobbling on the end of a fishing rod. "You and McCall. Your little plan to keep him from getting fired."

"What?"

Jackson's mouth tips up, like he's fully aware that he just struck gold. He grabs his papers, shuffling them together, and approaches Stiles with that slow, arrogant walk that makes Stiles want to risk a harassment email waiting for him in his inbox from HR.

"It's all over the office. Some of us can afford to stick around, and some of us can't." He claps a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Getting chummy with Hale isn't going to save your friend's job, though."

Stiles knocks Jackson's hand away, ready to retaliate and say the nastiest thing his tongue knows how to say, but his brain is swirling around the fear of Jackson actually being right and not just trying to lure a reaction out of him, that there really is talk of Scott losing his job and Peter's probably the one who recommended firing people in the first place and somehow, Stiles was last in line to know. Jackson struts away with a smug smile on his face like he's just successfully planted the seed of drama, and Stiles pushes aside all thoughts of picking up papers or waiting at the printer and turns around, hurrying to Peter's office.

He barges in without knocking, perfectly aware that whatever Peter's doing in there isn't as important as this.

"I need to talk to you."

Peter looks up from desk, and yup, all those files and whatever's on his monitor can't possibly be more pressing than Stiles' concerns here and now. Okay, fine, maybe Peter's right and the universe does revolve around Stiles a little bit, and he'll work on that later, but not right now.

"Nice to see you too," Peter says.

"Listen, there's been some talk," Stiles says, wringing his fingers through his hair. "I mean—it was just Jackson, and I'm pretty sure he was just trying to provoke me, but I have to make sure."

"Make sure of what?"

"He's talking a lot about cutbacks. People getting laid off," Stiles says. He wants to be wrong, he wants to be so wrong about all this because Peter wouldn't—he wouldn't actually— "Like Scott. He's been saying that Scott might be fired."

He looks at Peter, waiting for him to soothe his concerns, to assure him that Jackson's just being his usual flavor of asshole and this isn't actually happening, but Peter doesn't seem to be on the same page as Stiles, lips pressed tightly together. Stiles feels the bottom drop out of his stomach, like an elevator cord snapping, and he watches Peter get to his feet, stepping around the desk and closer to Stiles, still a good distance away but closer than he needs to be.

"Are you kidding?" Stiles says.

"It's still in the discussion phase."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Stiles says again, that familiar anger that his body bubbles with when Peter does something irritating frothing to the surface. "He's my best friend and he's _good_! He's really good! He's important to the company."

"If it makes you feel any better, I was going to see if I could find any openings for him with my finance firm."

"He doesn't want to join your stupid firm!" Stiles yells, wanting to throw things. There's a paperweight on Peter's desk that could probably do some satisfying damage that his fingers are just _itching_ to grab. "This is—you know what? I should've known this would happen."

A blink of anger flashes over Peter's eyes. "That what would happen?"

"That you'd do something shitty and go back to being a total douchebag, the same douchebag who couldn't own up to spilling his damn coffee all over me! Just when I actually thought—" He won't finish that train of thought, he absolutely refuses. All he knows is that he was wrong, completely wrong about Peter, and his first impression was the one worth listening to. "Never mind. You're an asshole."

"Stiles," Peter says, stepping closer, voice sharp and cold like concrete. "I'm doing my job. What I'm paid to do."

"Well," Stiles says, jabbing him in the chest, and Peter follows the moments with quick, laser-like eyes. "It wouldn't kill you to think about the effect you have on people."

Peter steps even closer. "I think about it plenty."

"I don't think you do," Stiles says. He's close enough to count every single one of Peter's eyelashes, to see every fleck of grey in his blue eyes. "You think about yourself, and your bottom line, and that's that."

"How would you know?"

"Because I've been paying attention," Stiles hisses, _to you_ , he thinks, _I can't stop noticing every little thing_.

Shit, they're close. Peter won't stop staring at him with those intense, hard eyes, and someone's chest is heaving, Stiles thinks it's his own, and aside from the frustration and the rage and the need to yell like a child, this might be the hottest moment of Stiles' life. He licks his lips. Peter's eyes flick down to watch.

"Fuck it," Stiles says, and kisses Peter, open-mouthed and teeth first and brimming with fierce aggression that Peter instantly responds to, throat making a deep, pleased sound as his arms wrap tightly around Stiles' backside and Stiles winds his around Peter's neck.

For one long, whirlwind moment, none of it even feels real—it just feels like someone smacked Stiles extra hard across the face—and it takes him a second to come to the conclusion that this is actually happening, and this isn't all a strange hallucinatory wet dream. Peter's teeth sinking into his lower lip solidifies his suspicions that this is, in fact, reality, and Stiles instantly whimpers, hard and straining against his pants embarrassingly fast. There's a fire, a fierceness in Peter's movements that seems to match Stiles', like maybe he's been thinking about this too, maybe he's been dreaming about it, getting off to it, aching for it—

"You're still an asshole," Stiles says, already out of breath, against Peter's slick mouth. "I can't believe we're—oh—"

"I can," Peter growls, hauling him closer for another kiss, this one downright bruising, while one of his hands cups Stiles' crotch and squeezes, which, for as hot as it is, is pushing the worry of coming in his pants like a teenager and _at work_ no less to the top of his list of concerns.

He can’t believe this is happening. He can’t believe they’re actually doing this, that Peter actually _wants_ this and maybe has all along which means that Stiles actually didn’t misread all those signs and isn’t actually going slowly insane, but is actually _desirable_ and so much so that Peter’s grabbing him by the thighs and pushing him on top of his desk. This is—Stiles doesn’t even have the words to express just how hot this is, that he’s about to have sex on top of a work desk during work hours. He grabs onto Peter’s collar and yanks him ever closer, biting down on his bottom lip and hitching his leg around Peter’s lower back. Peter responds in kind, letting out a guttural noise like Stiles is really starting to rile him up—mission accomplished—and pushes him on top of stacks of papers and a keyboard and what might even be a stapler digging into his shoulder blades. Stiles might be more concerned about the pain if Peter wasn’t in the middle of yanking Stiles’ shirt out of his pants and unzipping them, snaking a hand inside to cup him through his underwear before he shoves his pants down to his knees, Peter’s own very prominent erection pressed against Stiles’ thigh all the while.

Stiles gets with the program and reciprocates, breaking away from their disorienting kiss to focus on unbuttoning Peter’s pants and getting to the gold as quickly as possible, because if he doesn’t have Peter’s dick in his hand in the next ten seconds, he might just cry.

His hips stutter up into Peter’s hand, desperate for more of a touch as Peter ducks into his neck and drags his tongue up the skin, his teeth entering the situation a moment later. He doesn’t even know where to focus, the hand palming his dick, the mouth leaving filthy hickeys on his neck, or the lean line of a body draped on top of his, but he wants to memorize it all, concentrate on everything.

"Holy—Peter, you gotta," Stiles starts, unable to string solid sentences together. He whines, trembling with his need to come, probably harder than he ever has in his life, and wraps his fists around Peter's shirt. " _Please_."

And that's when, of course, someone decides it's a good idea to knock on Peter's door, a sound so jarring, so out of place in this haze of sex and need and _want_ that it feels a bit like an electric shock to the heart, Stiles' heartbeat going straight into panic mode at the sound.

"Fuck," he says, suddenly never so aware of his naked thighs than he is at this very moment. And once again for good measure: "Fuck."

Peter's slightly ahead of him on the track of damage control. "Quick," he hisses, stepping back and zipping up his pants. "Get under the desk."

"Under the desk, yeah, great, _got it_ ," Stiles replies, all that heady sweat turning to sticky stress in seconds, and he slips off the desk and crouches beneath it with his pants down at his ankles, wondering if there's ever been a more shameful moment in his life than right now. All he can do is hope that whatever cockblock is on the other side of that door isn't going to hear the pounding noise of his hectic heartbeat from his hiding spot under the desk.

Said cockblock knocks again, a sharp rap of the knuckles that nearly has Stiles biting blood to the surface of his bottom lip. Peter barks, "Coming!" at the door, his voice much gruffer than it was a minute ago.

His footsteps stomp across the carpeted floor before Stiles hears the door being yanked open. A flood of distant noise filters in, mostly idle typing and quiet chatter, the kind of sounds that remind Stiles of the world outside of the bubble of ridiculously hot sex he was just about to have in here. On a _desk_.

"What is it?" Peter snaps, sounding about as aggravated as Stiles is terrified that someone might round this desk and see his half-naked self squatting beneath it. "I'm busy working in here."

"Sorry," Greenberg says, and of fucking course it's Greenberg. "I was supposed to bring these charts to you."

"All right," Peter says. His voice sounds like the jagged end of a shiv. "Now get out."

The door shuts again and Stiles almost doesn't want to peek out from behind the desk in fear of what the fuck's going to come next. Something about kneeling underneath a work desk with his pants around his knees while he's on the clock brings the reality of the situation in and takes a fair bit of the sexiness out, leaving him feeling slightly foolish and also extremely confused. He came in here to yell at Peter and it somehow spiraled into one of the hottest make out sessions he's ever had to date, and he doesn't know what it means, and if Peter's really interested, or what on earth happens now.

"He's gone, Stiles," Peter says.

"Right," Stiles says, easing himself out from under the desk when he sees no other option. He really shouldn’t be embarrassed. Peter just saw his cock and very nearly sucked him off, and now he’s feeling sheepish because the real world has settled in? He feels, very strangely, like a fifteen-year-old kid who just got a handjob under the bleachers and has no clue what comes next.

When he emerges, Peter no longer looks quite as angry as he sounded a moment ago. He’s holding the papers Greenberg brought to him, but he’s not looking at them, not even giving them a momentary glance, eyes fixed on Stiles instead. Does he want to continue what they were doing? Or is he trying to figure out how the hell any of this happened? Peter doesn’t strike Stiles as the kind of person who sits around figuring out anything, instead calculating every move if he isn’t charging confidently ahead, but he isn’t saying anything, leaving Stiles feeling uncomfortably out of place.

"I, well. Uh. I should." Stiles points at the door as he zips up his pants and then immediately rubs at the burning heat on the back of his neck.

"Stiles."

"I should go!" Stiles says loudly, firmly, like a crazy man. "I'm gonna go. You're busy and I—I am also busy. So—yes."

He runs out of that office like it’s infested with the plague, only realizing as he shuts the door behind himself that his shirt isn’t tucked in and his hair is most likely a very clear indicator of what he was just doing, to say nothing of his swollen lips. _Shit_. He is too fucking old to be this stupid.

But he’s _not_ old enough to do the mature thing and actually talk this out, so he fucking flees and doesn't look back.

\--

So he stays home for the next few days like the loser he is. He just has no clue what the etiquette is when you go hot and heavy with someone in an office and then run out after the heat and heaviness comes to a screeching halt. The hope is that when he returns after a three-day hiatus during which he’ll claim to have picked up that bug that's going around the office, Peter will have magically been wiped off the face of the planet. Or at least found a new business to bring his financial knowledge and crisp suits to.

He tells Finstock over the phone that's he's sick and that he must've caught some germs at work, and as reasonable as his excuse sounds, Finstock sounds a little unconvinced, which has Stiles on edge for the rest of the day. Is the entire floor sitting around chatting about why Stiles is secretly skipping work? Do they all _know_? Has Peter told them already, perfectly comfortable chortling about their risqué escapades with all their coworkers?

No. _No_ , Peter wouldn't do that. Then again, Stiles also thought that Peter wouldn't recommend firing Scott, so who the fuck knows what Peter would and wouldn't do. He's a wild card, and Stiles should stay the fuck away. Whatever emotions that come to the surface when Stiles spends too much time around him just can't be trusted.

He spends his first day off soaking in that mentality, trying to ignore how unbelievably hot it was to be stretched out on Peter's desk with his legs wrapped around his hips, instead reminding himself to stop thinking about it, Peter, or work in general to give himself the time and space to decompress. He stays in his pajamas, watches YouTube videos of dogs bringing their owners the remote, and ignores the world.

The second day, he starts wondering if Peter's thinking about him, if he actually believes that Stiles is sick. If he ran out of his office way too fast and freaked out like a virginal teenager for no reason. He still spends the day dicking around online, except that this time, he grabs his phone every twenty minutes or so and considers calling Peter up to get everything out onto the table. He eventually convinces himself it's a bad idea every time and goes back to Hulu.

By the third day, he's stir-crazy, inundated with work emails, and starting to feel a little silly about having to lay low at home all because of an extremely hot make out session that, were it with anybody else, would've resulted in a one night stand and skipping work because he's sore from a night of time well spent. So the rubber band of sexual tension snapped and they made out. So what. _So what_. They're adults. They can restrain themselves, hopefully better than before now that they have some of that out of their systems.

Stiles just needs to confront the situation head-on himself, and preferably somewhere other than at work where Stiles will inevitably run into Peter somewhere inopportune and full of nosy, eavesdropping coworkers, which will result in the most awkward chat of Stiles' life. So he puts on his big boy pants and asks Scott to sneak Peter's address out of HR's records and goes to face this—whatever this is—like a grown-up.

God, life was so much simpler when he wasn't one. It also was when Peter wasn't around to complicate everything and stir up trouble, but both ships seem to have sailed from those ports.

He heads over to Peter's place, an apartment in the city, after the workday's over and the traffic's settled, telling himself the entire time that this is a smart, mature idea and that backing out would be stupid and juvenile. Somehow, amazingly, these mental taunts work, and Stiles ends up on Peter's door—fifth floor, apartment at the end of the hall, right over the bustle from the streets—right around seven o'clock.

There, at the door, Stiles feels a bolt of panic roll through him. What is he even going to say? Why didn't he prepare in the car? What if when he gets inside, Peter's doing shirtless curl-ups on the floor and Stiles won't even be able to concentrate on getting words out of his body?

He knocks on the door before he can work himself up into a frenzy, and ten seconds later, it opens. Peter's standing there, thankfully fully clothed, but no longer in a suit, instead a dark tee with a low-hanging neckline and snug jeans, even his hair soft without the constraints of being gelled into place, just like he did that night at the bar when Stiles could hardly keep his hard-on under control. Peter looks at him and furrows his eyebrows.

"Well, this is a surprise."

"Can I come in?" Stiles asks, pulse quickening at the sheer sight of him. "Just for—for like a second."

“Seems foolish,” Peter says, looking him up and down, “to let someone _so ill_ inside.”

“Uh. Well.”

"I take it you aren't contagious," Peter says dryly, then opens the door and lets Stiles come in.

"Fine, I'm not really sick," Stiles admits once he's walked inside, rubbing a hand through his hair just to have something to clutch. "I was avoiding you."

"I never would've guessed."

Stiles steps closer, seized by some bold, certain part of himself that now knows that Peter wants this too, has been thinking about this too, is going crazy over Stiles too. It’s a stupid impulse, but it’s like Peter’s a magnet he can’t help but be gravitated toward, like he just doesn’t have a chance. He came over here to say no, to explain why this can't happen, but that plan seems so—so _ludicrous_ right now.

“After what happened, I just. I really didn’t know what to say,” Stiles tells him. Peter is looking at him without a word, and if Stiles was hoping that Peter would fill in the blanks Stiles is leaving, he’s clearly expecting a little too much spoonfeeding. "I'm really into you," he confesses, licking his lips. "I got really nervous after what happened in your office, and I panicked about the consequences. It was hot as fuck, like, wow—but I can't lose my job."

“I like you too, Stiles,” Peter says, zeroing in on the one part of that Stiles was hoping he wouldn’t.

“And you’re trying to fire my best friend, which is so not cool.”

“It was a suggestion I considered giving to the company,” Peter says. “If it helps at all, I've decided not to recommend his termination.”

“Yeah, that means a lot to me,” Stiles says. “But that doesn’t—I mean, it doesn’t make a difference with. I mean. As far as the two of us—I.”

He waits for Peter to get what he’s trying to say, to pick up the puzzle pieces so Stiles doesn’t have to fumble around the words anymore, but he’s not helping out. 

"Look, I think it's all a bad idea," Stiles finally blurts out, occupying himself by winding his hands into his hair and tugging. His eyes look away from Peter and land on a few picture frames sitting on an end table by Peter’s couch, specifically on one photo of Peter sitting in a ski lodge in an Icelandic sweater and thick-rimmed reading glasses. It reminds him instantly of San Francisco, of watching him read Wuthering Heights on the train in those very glasses. Something grips him tightly in the chest. "I'm normally not against breaking the rules, but here I think it'd be pretty shitty if one of us got fired for someone as—something like this."

Peter seems completely unfazed by this news, not pained in the least by Stiles' rejection. He takes a step closer. "All right," he says. "That's fine."

"I just think it would end really badly," Stiles says, feeling the ridiculous, inane, unnecessary need to keep filling the air with words. "It's against company policy to—to. You know."

"Sure," Peter says.

"I'm typically all for breaking the rules, but I just don't think—something about this just screams mistake, right?"

"I suppose."

"Not that I didn't enjoy what happened in your office, but, well.” Maybe he should've done this over the phone. “I'm trying to think with my upstairs brain here, so."

Stiles swallows on a dry mouth, realizing that Peter's still moving closer, still approaching. Is he saying the words he's meaning to? Is any of this coming out correctly? Peter's reaction doesn't seem to support the idea.

"It would just be," Stiles says, determined to make his point, and then Peter steps close enough to slide his hand over the side of Stiles' neck. Stiles unconsciously leans into it. "It wouldn't be a smart move."

Peter's hand slips back to the nape, fingers massaging his skin, drifting higher into his hair. "Of course."

Stiles' mouth is getting drier and drier. "So you agree?"

"Uh huh," Peter says, then leans in and kisses Stiles.

After that, Stiles' plan sort of falls into complete shambles and madness descends. Somehow, Stiles starts kissing back, and Peter's tongue melts against his, and Stiles' throat starts making embarrassing noises, and what was supposed to be a polite brush-off becomes a wild, crazy hot repeat of what happened in the office, minus the possibility of being caught by Greenberg, which makes it all infinitely hotter.

"Mmm," Stiles moans, tilting his head into the greedy press of Peter's mouth, pulling back to breathe and Peter refusing to stop for such a trivial need, his lips cutting Stiles off in between words. "Oh god," he says, Peter biting his lower lip. "Did you even hear a word I just said?"

"Of course," Peter says. "I was listening. You're right."

"You mean," Stiles says, breaking off into a dizzy gasp when Peter licks a sordid stripe down his jaw and sucks on the pulse point on his neck. "You agree that this—” he points between them “—is a bad idea."

"It is," Peter says, so solemn. "We should do it anyway."

Stiles has to admit, with Peter's teeth grazing his skin, he's definitely being persuaded toward that idea right now. He's pretty much overwhelmingly convinced when Peter's hands travel downward and squeeze his ass, an honest to goodness _growl_ of want leaving his lips. Stiles hikes one of his legs over Peter's hip, unthinking. He probably should be thinking, like about consequences and what happens next and if this'll all end in a pile of gnarly disastrous rubble, but it's so hard to be logical when his head is spinning with the sensations of being sucked, stroked, bitten, and kissed into another world. Later, he'll deal with it all later.

"Afterwards," Stiles says, eyes starting to flutter shut as Peter kisses him again, tongue sliding over his lower lip. This entire apartment smells like Peter, like his pricy cologne, and that's contributing to making it very hard for Stiles to concentrate. "We have to actually talk."

"Stiles," Peter says, taking a hand off his ass and cupping his cheek.

"Uh huh?"

"I'm going to suck you off now."

Stiles groans at the promise alone, head feeling dangerously heavy for just his neck to hold up. He watches as Peter descends to his knees and yanks Stiles' pants off, followed by his underwear, and wastes no time after that grabbing Stiles' cock and slipping his mouth around it, immediately enveloping it in a soft, sweet heat that's turning Stiles’ legs—and thought processes—to jelly. Peter really doesn't hang about, he just grabs Stiles roughly by the thighs and swallows him down, further, further, so fucking far that Stiles is seeing shooting stars behind his eyelids.

“Oh my—jesus fucking christ,” Stiles says, doing his best just to not fall over, legs already feeling liquefied.

Peter gets the hint that Stiles’ fragmented expletives are really praise, mouth working around Stiles’ length like he’s somehow peered into Stiles’ dreams and figured out exactly how he wants it. His nails dig into Stiles’ thighs, mouth warm and persistent and absolutely _perfect_ around his cock, like he’s been doing this to Stiles for years.

Oh my god, they _should’ve_ been doing this for years. At least weeks. Coming to work every day would’ve been a lot more bearable—hell, Peter would’ve been a lot more bearable—if after every tense argument over shitty toilet paper Stiles would’ve just shoved his pants down and Peter would’ve deep-throated him. He threads his hands into Peter’s hair, pulling him closer while Peter cups his balls and squeezes his ass and does everything possible to make Stiles almost double over.

“Keep—keep that up,” Stiles demands, hands tight in Peter’s hair. “Dear lord, never stop doing that.”

It’s not something he’d normally find necessary to say, but Peter’s just the kind of asshole that Stiles thinks he might just abruptly stop halfway through just to mess with Stiles, which would somehow be worse than all the other injustices he’s committed against Stiles in all the time he’s known him. Amazingly, though, this somehow completely makes up for everything Peter has ever done to drive Stiles up the wall, because _fuck_ , is he good at this, because every time Stiles thinks he knows what’s coming Peter throws a curveball in the mix and his tongue just _flutters_ against the underside of Stiles’ cock or the suction of his mouth gets even tighter and Stiles gets that much closer to heaven.

This is going to be so embarrassing. He’s going to come so fucking fast. What’s Stiles’ average? Maybe like nine, ten minutes? How long has it been, thirty damn seconds? It somehow feels like Peter has spent simultaneously one millisecond and ten decades sucking him off, and it’s not enough and too much and just right all at once and holy shit, how will anybody else’s blowjobs ever compare to this?

Stiles loses it when Peter sinks his fingers into Stiles’ ass cheeks, his nails pressing in perfectly straddling the fence between painful and pleasurable, and he tops it all of by humming around Stiles’ dick. Stiles comes hard enough to see explosions of color behind his eyelids for a few seconds, thighs shuddering, hands vice-like in Peter’s hair, and Peter swallows everything down without a single complaint. Stiles watches and very nearly passes out at the sight, his lungs hungry for air and his legs trembling.

"That was really good," Stiles pants, forearm covering up his eyes as he tries to find his breath. "That was—shit. _Really_ good."

Peter's hand reaches for his neck, sliding around to the back of it and squeezing, petting the slightly sweaty strands on his nape as he gets up.

"Next time you can return the favor," Peter says.

"Next time," Stiles repeats. He pulls his arm away from his eyes. "Next time?" He can't believe he's about to say this, but all he can think about is the clean shirt dropped off on his desk and how nice Peter's smile is and how hard it was to get through San Francisco without climbing into Peter's lap, and none of that is persuading him that giving into this is anything but a road leading straight to trouble. "I don't think that's such a good idea. We can't—we really shouldn't—a relationship with you is just a mistake. For both of us.”

"You have heard of casual sex, haven't you, Stiles?"

"I—casual sex. Yeah. Sure."

Peter curls his hands around Stiles’ thighs, pulling Stiles' pants back up in the process and zipping them shut. "Nobody has to know. And what they don't know won't hurt them."

Stiles doesn't even know how to start explaining that this isn't even about anybody else, that his fear is solidified firmly in himself and what idiotic feelings he'll start unwillingly falling prey to. He's never made a casual sex deal with someone before; he does one night stands with hot strangers and he does relationships that are the whole shebang, never the wishy-washy in-between. He's not even sure he'd be good at casual sex, at continuously sleeping with the same person and staying entirely nonchalant about it all. Casual sex doesn't sound like something he can just jump right into. He probably needs practice and training before he leaps right in and starts up a no-strings-attached relationship with his coworker, doesn't he?

“So what do you think?” Peter asks.

Overall, he feels like this is a bad, bad idea. Weirdly enough, that's sort of encouraging him to go ahead and do it anyway.

“Let's do this,” Stiles says, throwing caution to the wind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY Y'ALL, SHOULD I BE APOLOGIZING FOR THESE MEGA LONG CHAPTERS OR

Secretly, Stiles has always wanted to have an office romance, probably because it’s the hottest thing he can possibly imagine ever happening to someone ever, except for maybe having a romance with an underground mafia member hiding from the government. It’s saucy, and it’s a little risky, and it creates the possibility of having sex on the copier, which, to be honest, is everybody’s fantasy once they start working in the corporate world.

In his expectations of sleeping with someone you work with, there are a lot of trench coats. And explicit, secret faxes. And giving head under a conference table. And finding all the spots in the building that the cameras don't have a view of. And pulling someone close with a tie a whole bunch.

He has no clue if any of these expectations he has of fucking a coworker are even distantly close to reality, but the fact that he might actually get to find out, that ickle little late bloomer Stiles Stilinski might get to live out this wild fantasy, is almost surreal because of how fantastic it is.

Okay, so maybe he doesn’t know what to actually expect. But it certainly isn't this.

When he comes to work, Peter is treating him so nonchalantly, so _coolly_ that Stiles has to consider the idea of what happened at his place being a complete hallucinatory fever dream. He doesn't know what he was looking for—probably not an ass pinch and a filthy kiss against the printer—but he did think Peter would at least acknowledge him during this boring ass finance meeting. All he's done so far is drawl on and on about numbers in no less than thirty slides, not even meeting Stiles’ eyes as he talks, and now that Stiles thinks about it, Peter didn't even pop by this morning demanding coffee, and does this all mean that Peter's changed his mind and decided dipping his spoon into the company pot just isn't worth it?

Stiles almost gets a little worked up considering the latter, because if Peter was persistent enough to flirt with him relentlessly for months, attempt to seduce him everywhere from bars to San Francisco hotels, and then have the gall to drone out all of Stiles’ reasoning why this is a horrible idea before sucking him off, then what fucking gives? Did he grow a moral compass overnight and is now too cowardly to give Stiles a handjob in the bathroom lest he lose his job?

Stiles isn't deterred yet, though. He's determined to break Peter if what he's doing is playing hard-to-get like a teenager taking romance tips from Cosmo, so Stiles spends twenty minutes of the meeting having fun slowly sliding a pen in and out of his mouth—plus lots of tongue work—to see if he can crack Peter to absolutely no success, then two minutes undoing an extra button on his shirt and leaning forward just a little too provocatively to be normal for work, the next fifteen minutes a little sour that he didn't even manage to give Peter half a chub, and the next twenty completely ignoring Peter's presentation in favor of doodling because fuck this, he knows he looks hot with a pen in between his teeth. All he's gotten for his efforts has been Scott shooting him concerned looks.

"All right, good meeting," Peter finally says after what feels like hours of berating them all for not watching their spending. "Everyone back to work. And, uh—Stiles. Hang back a moment."

Stiles freezes, Peter still not meeting his eyes as he pushes all his papers together, but he hears Isaac snorting behind him, flicking Stiles' ear with his pen.

"You in trouble?"

"Shut up."

Isaac grins at him, and Stiles pretends he isn't getting red all over thinking about exactly what's about to happen and what conclusion everyone else must be coming to as well while everybody gets to their feet and shuffles their things together and heads for the door. Isaac gives Stiles one last punch to the neck that Stiles slaps off before he leaves, and by the time the door shuts behind the last departing person, Stiles is prickling with an unpleasant combination of curiosity and anxiety. Feels like there's a fifty-fifty chance that Stiles is either about to be let down easy or fucked on this conference table.

"You, uh,” Stiles says, because Peter hasn’t seemed to notice that everybody’s left, eyes concentrated on the papers he has in hand, brows furrowed in focus. “You wanted me to stick around?”

He briefly sways toward the option that this might be a rejection Peter at least had enough class to not deliver over email, but then again, Stiles finds it hard to believe that Peter could have underwent the emotional whiplash of sucking Stiles off one day and then wanting nothing to do with him the next. He sits up a little straighter in his seat, not sure what to expect.

“I did,” Peter says, leafing through a few pages in the folders he’s holding. “Did you get a chance to compile those numbers I asked for?"

"Yeah. I emailed them this morning."

"And did you copy Finstock on that?"

"Yeah."

"And you found all the budget files from the last year?"

"I did."

Peter nods, and finally looks up from his stack of folders, brow still furrowed. Then he drops all of them on the table and says, "And how would you feel about sucking me off before going back to your desk?"

"I—what?"

"Do you," Peter repeats, enunciating every word this time, "want to suck me off?"

A huff of incredulous laughter spills out of Stiles' mouth, the back of his neck burning. "Really?"

Peter checks his wristwatch. "It'll have to be quick," he says. He's so very casual about all of this. "I have a meeting with Finstock in twenty minutes."

"You—you want me to blow you? Here? Now?"

"I figured I'd lock the door first. Remove the option of repeating last time."

"I—" Stiles scratches the back of his head, tries to find a reason this isn't the best idea ever, and probably also the most fun he'll have at work in a meeting room ever. He licks his suddenly dry lips. "Yeah, okay."

"Perfect," Peter says.

A moment later, they're kissing, Peter's hand on the back of his neck and reeling him into a kiss that takes the situation down under from a zero to a ten embarrassingly fast. Stiles whimpers without meaning to, hands finding Peter's arms, his shoulders, his backside, and only vaguely remembers the fact that there are other people in the world aside from just them.

"The door," Stiles pants on his mouth. "Can you—can we—"

"Your wish is my command," Peter says, but not before he sinks his teeth down into Stiles' bottom lip and steals the air out of him, and then he's slipping away and locking the door and dear god, if there were folders and papers strewed over the table, now is when Stiles would dramatically sweep them aside before ripping his shirt off. When exactly did his life get so damn hot?

Peter's back in his grasp a moment later, pushing their mouths together again. Everything in his movements is fast and urgent and harsh and if Peter's goal is to get them off faster than teenage boys looking through a dirty magazine then he's on the right track to making it happen, because Stiles is already hard in his jeans and so, so turned on right now.

"Come here," Stiles says, grabbing Peter's elbows and pulling him into position, pushing him up against the table. 

He sinks to his knees—if there's one thing this company hasn't skimped out on, it's the carpeting, so there's that—and tugs and yanks Peter's pants away without bothering with the formalities of unbuttoning, edging them down just enough to reveal his prize. Stiles hasn't done this in a while, not because he doesn't like doing it, but more so because things have been rather... slow for him lately as far as foot traffic into his bed goes, and it's not until he's looking at the outline of Peter's cock in his underwear that he realizes just how much he misses this. His mouth may or may not be watering.

He knows, just _knows_ that Peter's going to have a nice dick, and he's proven right when he pulls his cock out of his underwear and is met with it, the hair trimmed, the girth of it thicker than he expected, and Stiles can tell instantly that this is going to be enjoyable for him and Peter both. He doesn't bother with any preamble of starting off with a few slow licks; he just sucks it straight into his mouth and takes it as deep as he can. He wants to show off and he definitely wants to knock Peter down from his pedestal into a moaning, shuddering mess, and there's one guaranteed way he knows how to do that, so he does that thing with his tongue that he knows feels amazing and sucks a little harder.

"You love this," Peter says, his voice different than usual, all that cocky bravado replaced with a breathless awe. His thumb traces Stiles' cheek. "You love a cock in your mouth.”

Well, Stiles can’t argue with him there. College taught him a whole lot more than just his degree, and now he’s pretty confident tooting his own horn when it comes to his breath-holding skills, flexible tongue, and cock-sucking talent.

He’s also not too bad at the whole gag reflex thing, which is trick Stiles decides now is a good time to pull out of his sleeve. Everybody loves a good showstopper, so Stiles relaxes his throat and takes Peter in as far as he can.

Peter’s response is instantaneous. His left hand tightens where it’s cupping Stiles’ cheek and his right clenches in Stiles’ hair, pulling just enough to edge on painful. Stiles feeds off of it, sucking harder, doing his best to completely unravel Peter. He deserves it after everything he’s put Stiles through, and so Stiles is going to make it his mission to make this the best, most mind-boggling, leg-jellying blowjob in the world. He goes back to licking and lapping at Peter’s cock when his jaw gets a little sore, movements getting a bit sloppy even though Peter hardly seems to care, his hips pushing forward, eager to fuck Stiles’ mouth. Stiles relaxes his tongue and lets Peter do it, lets him slide in and out at his own pace.

Stiles is almost dizzy with want by the time Peter’s spilling down his throat. He strokes the base of Peter’s cock through it and suckles at the head, the way Peter reacts to his orgasm something he wishes he had a camera for. He shudders and groans and is anything but gentle with Stiles, maneuvering him in place exactly where he wants him to be as he comes in Stiles’ mouth.

"You did that wonderfully," Peter praises, hands briefly touching Stiles' cheeks before they pull him to his feet and slide into his pants, gripping his cock through the barrier of his underwear and hardly giving Stiles a moment to breathe. "What a good job you did."

"Ah—oh, fuck—thanks?" Stiles pants, hips jerking forward. Peter grins, then leans in and drags his teeth down his earlobe, sending him into a parallel dimension where he's a shooting star. "Oh god."

"What do you want?" Peter whispers right into his ear.

"For you to actually touch me, come fucking on," Stiles grumbles, because Peter obviously knows, he just wants to hear him beg for it. He has enough clarity to pinch Peter's arm, which earns him a slap on his ass from Peter's free hand, something that Stiles was not at all expecting and oh god, this is too good, this is going to be over way too fast if he doesn't reel it in.

Peter finally obliges and snakes his hand into Stiles' underwear, wrapping around his cock and stroking. His hand, his fingers—oh god, his fingers, the same ones Stiles has been watching way too much, how they type and write and curl around a pen, except now they're around his dick and making Stiles lose his breath. The pressure is just right, and now and again Peter squeezes around the base and it feels pretty much perfect, reducing Stiles to a very unprofessional pile of whimpers.

"For how long have you wanted this?” Peter asks, voice low. He speeds his hand up on the upstroke only to slow down again on the downstroke, teasing. “How long have you been thinking about me making you come?”

“Too long,” Stiles gasps. “Too fucking long.”

“Since San Francisco?”

“Earlier,” Stiles admits, head dropping forward to rest on Peter’s shoulder. “Ah, fuck. In the—in the damn coffee shop.”

“When we first met?”

“You were _hot_ , okay? Annoying as fuck, but hot,” Stiles says. Peter’s hand tightens just a fraction, pulling a whimper from Stiles’ sore throat. “Shit, just like that.”

It’s not always easy for Stiles to come from a handjob, not when he’s had too many years for his own hand to figure out exactly what it is he wants, but Peter’s doing an unfair job of blowing him away here. The pressure is just right, the friction is just right, the slickness is just right, and Stiles is breathing through his nose just to not pop too soon and come off as a two-pump-chump. What can he say here? It’s been a stressful morning and this is some _marvelous_ stress relief.

It’s just infuriating, because Peter knows exactly what to do. His finger slides over the head of Stiles’ penis, playing with the precome there, and somehow this is just as good as the blowjob from a few days ago, and how is that even possible? Peter’s other hand isn’t slacking, either, playing with Stiles’ nipple through his shirt, rubbing circles into his lower back, running along the crack of Stiles’ ass. Stiles pushes, greedy, into Peter’s fist, riding his touch.

“I’m gonna.” Stiles swallows, trying to hold back here. “I’m really fucking close. _Peter_.” He twists his hips, the pressure too good, pulling him nearly there. “I can’t come in my pants.”

He can’t, he just can’t. It’s nine o’clock and he’s not spending eight hours sitting in a sticky, wet mess leaking out of his underwear. Peter’s apparently already prepared, though, because he hushes Stiles with a firm kiss.

“I’ll just swallow the evidence,” he says against his lips, and sinks down just in time to take Stiles’ dick into his mouth and catch his release.

Well, ah—that’s definitely one way to fix that problem.

"That was—holy shit." Stiles tries to reorient himself as he vaguely comprehends that Peter's buttoning up his pants again. "That was the best business meeting I've ever been to."

"I have to agree," Peter says.

"Except, uh, maybe next time there could be snacks too?" Stiles says, licking his lips. "Snacks would be good."

Peter rolls his eyes, clearly trying his best to not be lulled in by Stiles' charisma, but he's smiling, so it's obviously not working. "How's this," he says, "you come over to my place tonight, where there'll be plenty of things for you to eat."

Dear fucking lord. Stiles may be in over his head. In the best of ways.

“I— _yeah_. I can work with that.”

“Thought you might,” Peter says. He runs his hand through Stiles’ hair, smoothing it back down into order. “But for now, you might want to head back to your desk.”

“You're a cruel man,” Stiles says, still feeling a little faint.

\--

Stiles has never had “casual sex” before. Not that he’s never wanted to. Fact of the matter is, it’s never been offered to him as a long-term, sustainable idea—he’s had his fair share of one night stands with strangers never to be seen again, and also one misguided, drunken one night stand with a friend that ended just about as badly as Stiles could’ve anticipated, and he’s had fully-fledged relationships that obviously included sex but also added emotions, feelings, affection, and consideration in as side dishes.

To be perfectly honest, Stiles doesn’t know how to go about this. How do you sleep with someone and then not giggle every time you see them in a meeting room giving a presentation because you know what their naked butt looks like? How can two coworkers actually work together in the daytime and fuck in the downtime and not let the aftertaste of hearing how somebody sounds when they come leak into their professional lives?

Well, he supposes he’ll find out eventually, because no fucking way is he backing out.

The only problem for him here is figuring out how to treat Peter from here on out. Casual sex implies an easiness, a simplicity that doesn’t come in a relationship, that all that’s really going on is an emotionless transaction, but he and Peter are friends—or at least, Peter’s been purporting as much for a while now—and how does that play in here? Friends do nice things for other friends, but fuck buddies certainly don’t. Friends stay late watching a movie, but fuck buddies probably come and then promptly go again. And then there’s the coworker aspect of their relationship, and there’s also the part of Stiles that still kind of hates Peter a little bit for his tendency to act like a grade-a asshole, and all of those factors and facets combined makes Stiles’ head explode just a little bit.

So being _casual_ is off to a great start.

He tries to treat this night at Peter’s like he would any evening hanging out with a buddy-slash-lover-slash-colleague, except that he happens to have thoroughly showered beforehand and is wearing the sexy underwear he had banned from San Francisco. No big deal. Then he does the courteous thing and stops to pick up food, heading to the Chinese joint next to work that Stiles is particularly fond of and ordering a few different dishes just in case Peter hates chicken or lo mein or teriyaki.

Peter texts him while Stiles is standing by the register waiting for his take-out bag, watching the chefs in the back prepare his fried rice. Is this sexy food? Stiles has no clue. He fishes his phone out of his pocket.

**Peter @ 5:46pm:** _Almost here?_

**Stiles @ 5:48pm:** _There in a sec!_

He grabs the massive bag once his food is done and sets it on the passenger seat, willing himself to relax as he drives over to Peter’s place. He has no idea why he’s so nervous; he’s had plenty of sex before. And this going to be _such good sex_ , so he has to stop overthinking.

He carries the food up to Peter’s apartment after he finds a parking spot, wondering as he climbs the stairs if he should’ve spent less time looking over a Chinese food menu and more time on spritzing himself with cologne or soaping up in very specific places. He suddenly feels much too unprepared, and a little too sweaty, and what if his hair looks like shit? Are you supposed to do your hair for a sex-only arrangement? Or would sweatpants technically have been allowed?

Dear fucking god, Stiles _really_ needs to stop thinking so much. He tells himself as much as he makes it to Peter’s floor, knocking on the door with his elbow. Peter opens it ten seconds later. 

Peter's nose twitches, and then his eyes slide down to the bag in Stiles' hand.

"Is that Chinese food?" he asks.

Stiles nods, completely unable to read the tone of that statement. He's pretty sure he's not doing any of this right. If he was, he'd be showing up here in a raincoat with nothing underneath and a rose in his teeth. Instead he's wearing layers and carrying takeout for two. Maybe three, he has a fuckton of food.

"Listen," Stiles says. "I've never done this whole casual, blasé, chill fuck buddies thing before."

"You don't say."

"I don't really know how to do it. But, uh, I'm guessing I'm doing it wrong."

Peter smirks. "Usually I'd say I'd much rather eat you out than eat out." He grabs Stiles' wrist and pulls him inside, taking the food from him. "But under the circumstances, how about we eat first, then fuck?"

"Yes," Stiles blurts out, the word falling out immediately because yes, _yes_ , what more could Stiles want out of an evening. "Let's do that."

So they eat. Peter spreads the food out on his coffee table and they make themselves comfortable on his couch, Stiles kicking his shoes off and helping himself to Peter's cutlery while Peter mocks him for not being dexterous enough to use chopsticks. It feels a little chummy, like they're just two buds sharing Chinese food and afterwards they're going to play some FIFA on Xbox and go to a strip club, which would be all well and fine if this was anyone else. It's _Peter_ , and all Stiles really wants to do is finish up this moo shu pork already and get it on.

His mistake for bringing food.

All he think about the entire time he eats is if he's chosen a dish with way too much curry in it to be flattering for his tastebuds. Are there mints in his car? Should he run down and pop about fifteen of them, then come back? He looks over at Peter to see if Peter's watching him eat with thinly hidden disdain, but he isn't; he's much too busy handling his chopsticks like a complete pro to bother.

What else can those hands do? Stiles wonders in spite of himself, watching the chopsticks open and close around a piece of chicken without a single fumble.

Grope Stiles’ leg, apparently, because two minutes later Peter's free hand is sliding over Stiles’ thigh, casually as ever and somehow still so _suggestive_ , still so subtly promising of what's to come tonight.

“You're a little tense,” Peter points out.

“Oh. I'm just—” Nervous. Out of his depth. In over his head. Somehow feeling fourteen again. “—getting used to this.”

"So this is new to you?" Peter asks, still stroking Stiles' thigh with an idle hand.

"Well. Not sex. I'm a seasoned pro in sex," Stiles says, grinning. "Just—doing it casually, really. I don't know what the protocol is."

"Protocol?"

"Okay, rules. Guidelines. Those unspoken regulations everybody knows about but won't talk about."

"You're overthinking," Peter tells him, and maybe he should tell Stiles something he doesn’t know. "It isn't that complicated. Just relax."

"I'm just—I'm learning the ropes here."

"Is this too hard for you, perhaps?" Peter asks, one condescending eyebrow raised like Stiles is a little kid who can't quite handle the concept of two naked men together. "Are you looking for something more serious?"

Stiles snorts. "Not with you."

"You are unbelievably charming."

"I didn't mean—c'mon. You are so damn annoying," Stiles says around a mouthful of rice. Okay, he might be annoying too, but Peter is annoying on _a whole new level holy shit_. "But you give a good blowjob."

"I do, don't I?"

"And I mean, this is like—my fantasy. Like, my high school self would be tripping over himself at the idea of good no-strings-attached sex whenever I damn well please."

"All right," Peter says. "So you can handle this?"

"Yeah. _Yes_." Stiles swallows another forkful of food and then pushes his carton onto the coffee table, shifting on the couch to straddle Peter's waist to show just how ready he is. Peter's still holding his noodles but who the fuck cares, he's ready to get freaky. "Let's have sex."

"You have rice on your cheek."

Stiles vigorously rubs it off. "C'mon." He grabs Peter's food out of his hands and sets it aside, sliding his hands over Peter's shoulders. "Teach me casual sex."

"When you phrase it like that," Peter says, one hand curling over Stiles' hip. He spares one look at his set-aside dinner before seemingly relinquishing it in favor of sex, turning back to Stiles and gripping his hip a little more tightly. "You make it a little more interesting."

"What, like you're a sexy professor?"

"Are you into that?"

"Sexy professors?" Stiles shrugs, unbuttoning Peter's shirt as he does so. "Why not?" He gets to the second to last button and grins. "You like sexy students?"

"I'm impartial."

"Oh really?" He leans in, hands flattening on Peter's newly exposed chest. He slides just a hint of a pornographic lilt in his voice, all faux innocence. "Professor Hale, I'm in desperate need of extra credit."

Peter's mouth twitches.

"Is there anything I could do to raise my grade?" Stiles does a trick he learned in college that's a surefire shortcut to Bonerville and licks over Peter's jawline while he grinds down against his hips. "Professor, I've never been touched quite like this before."

"You're ridiculous," Peter says. A pause. "Keep going."

"I'm a fast learner who'll do anything for an A," Stiles says in his ear, and that seems to be the last straw for Peter, who growls, grabs Stiles by the waist and flips them over until Stiles is flat on the couch and Peter's on top of him, capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss.

It's so much better than at the office, because here Stiles doesn't have to worry about Finstock barging in or someone noticing that he's taking a way, _way_ extended lunch break or even if that company table is strong enough to handle this. Here he can be as loud and needy and rough as he wants, which he demonstrates by nipping at Peter's lower lip and scratching his fingernails down Peter's back, hitching up fabric as he goes.

"First kiss?" Peter asks when he pulls back, mouth deliciously shiny and begging to be kissed again, and again, and again.

"What? No. No." Peter's knee bumps into his, reminding Stiles of the storyline. "Oh, right." He slips a leg up and over Peter's hips, readjusting his voice. "No one's ever kissed me before you, Teach. Maybe you could—oh, fuckity fuck!"

Peter mouthing his way down Stiles' jaw only to suck on that secretly sensitive part of his neck interrupts his role, but Peter stays perfectly in-character, slapping the side of Stiles' ass immediately.

"Language," he chastises, pinching the spot just spanked. "Keep a mouth that innocent clean."

"Oh, it's not that innocent," Stiles admits, grinning. "Maybe I could show you?"

He feels Peter's body shudder against his at that comment, so if nothing else, he knows he's doing something right here. Stiles tilts his hips upward, seeking friction between their cocks, and tries to push Peter's shirt off his shoulders. He attempts to concentrate on that, on undressing Peter as quickly as he can, but Peter’s _so unbelievably distracting_ and a great multitasker to boot, his tongue paying deliberate attention to Stiles’ neck and his hands firm on Stiles’ ass, pulling it up and closer to his body. Stiles can hardly fucking breathe, he’s so turned on.

“What exactly,” Peter says against his skin, teeth sharp where they're sliding over his neck, “are you going to show me?”

“Um,” Stiles says, momentarily losing track of his vocabulary when Peter finally wrenches his shirt aside and then miles of firm, broad chest are revealed and Stiles feels his mouth go dry as he reaches out to touch the hair there. “I, well. I could always show you just how well I suck dick.”

A muscle in Peter's jaw ticks, the offer most likely reminding him of their little adventure at work. Fine, so Stiles likes blowjobs. He likes sucking dicks and he wants to get especially good at sucking Peter's, so what. It’s not a _crime_.

“A tempting suggestion,” Peter admits. He gets to work on Stiles’ t-shirt, tugging hard enough at the fabric to tear it until Stiles tilts his back up enough to let it slide up and off him. “But I have other ideas for such a… pretty boy.”

“Oh, Professor,” Stiles says, exaggerating the moan, but then Peter ducks down and licks over Stiles’ nipple, biting down, and a real moan pushes out the imitation. “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Language,” Peter murmurs again, pinching Stiles’ side. He rolls Stiles’ nipple around his tongue until it's hardened, moving over to the other to deliver the same treatment until he's gasping. “I don't want to hear words like that unless I'm fucking you hard enough to make you see stars.”

“Is—is that the plan for tonight, then?”

“Yes,” Peter says, squeezing Stiles’ inner thigh through his pants. “You're going to take your jeans off for me now.”

“Damn right I will,” Stiles says, hurrying to unbutton and unzip and undress once Peter sits up to give him the room, a process that his eagerly fumbling fingers slow down considerably. He gets his jeans down to his thighs before Peter cuts in, an impatient growl sounding in his throat, and all but rips them off his legs.

God, it's like Peter's an animal. And Stiles is fucking loving every minute of it.

“You too,” he says as Peter pushes him back down onto the couch. He reaches for the belt loop of Peter’s pants, tugging. “Take ‘em off. Take it all off.”

Peter gets off the couch and does so, and even though Stiles has seen Peter’s dick a few times by now, he’s never seen it in all its naked glory like he is now, hard and thick and curling up toward his stomach and god, those thighs, those thighs Stiles has been dreaming of, and Peter’s _naked_ in front of Stiles for nobody but Stiles, and Stiles needs to breathe in and out slowly. It’s like this idiot is hewed out of marble or spent a past life posing for full-body Greek sculptures, except that this is a sculpture Stiles can actually touch, not one that’ll get him thrown out of a museum if he grabs it.

“Oh my god,” he says, watching, mesmerized, as Peter kicks aside his clothes and crawls back onto the couch. “Let me—I want to—come here.”

He wants _so much_ , there’s no way he can narrow it down to just one thing. He wants everything. He wants to touch Peter and kiss him and mark up his whole body, and it’s unfair that he can’t do it all at once, but he settles for just one, dragging Peter on top of him and licking his way into his mouth. Peter pushes Stiles’ legs open to nestle between them and holy shit, now their bare dicks are rubbing up against each other, and Stiles can do little but moan straight into his mouth and wrap his arms around Peter’s neck.

“Such a good boy,” Peter murmurs against Stiles’ lower lip, biting down on it. “Are you going to let me do what I’d like to you?”

“ _Yes_. Fuck yes.”

Peter grins, sinking his teeth into Stiles’ neck, and then he’s slithering down Stiles’ body and trailing his mouth down his chest, his torso, the jerking muscles in his stomach, all the way down to his thigh, teeth scraping over the skin there. Stiles tips his head back onto the cushion and grabs hold of the sofa with white fists.

He opens his legs as far as he can but Peter's fucking couch is in the way, one leg hung over the edge and the other dug into the leather backrest. His frustration, however, doesn't seem to reach Peter, who's too busy digging his fingers into Stiles' legs and leaving wet, filthy kisses on the inside of his thighs that are just short of where Stiles really wants them. He keens, shifting on the couch to try and get closer, but Peter's grip on his legs is strong, keeping him in place while he drags his tongue up to Stiles' hip and leaves marks in places no one is bound to ever see.

"This couch—oh," Stiles starts to complain, "there's no fucking room."

"Shh," Peter says, and then he pulls Stiles' leg up and over his shoulder and takes advantage of the new position by licking over Stiles' exposed hole which—holy fuck, Stiles was not prepared for that. "Any more complaints?"

"Hnnn, no, not right now."

He closes his eyes and leans back against the already sticky leather and lets Peter lick and suck at his pucker, up until he pulls unexpectedly away and asks, "You ever had a man touch you like this before?"

"'Course," Stiles says, after which Peter gives him a pointed look. "Oh, right, sorry. No. I'm gonna need you to show me, Prof."

"Just relax and learn," Peter says, then dives back in, tongue hot and insistent and oh-so-talented where it's playing with Stiles' entrance. Stiles can feel his stomach fluttering, his chest heaving, his thighs trembling with every fervent lick Peter delivers, his orgasm embarrassingly close to the surface. He doesn't want to come like this, not when he came for a little bit more than this and intends to make it happen, although Peter's ardent attempts to eat him out are definitely distracting him from that task.

"I don't wanna—ah," Stiles gasps out.

"What do you want?"

"Not like this," he tries to explain. "Want you inside me. For real. Please."

“Hmm,” Peter says, mouth still close and hot and wet and wonderful against Stiles’ ass, his teeth quickly biting down on the swell of flesh there. “For such a good student, I can make that happen.”

"Please tell me you have stuff," Stiles says, suddenly cursing himself for not stopping at the drug store before coming here and stocking up on a lifetime supply of condoms. He picks up Chinese food, and not the essentials? "Tell me you're prepared."

"Relax," Peter says. He reaches across the couch to the coffee table, opening up a drawer where condoms and lube are conveniently waiting. How many times does Peter have sex in his living room, exactly? Should Stiles feel jealous or relieved that he's so prepared?

"You got those everywhere around here?" Stiles asks, watching Peter rip open the condom. Ribbed. _Nice_. "Am I gonna find condoms in the cookie jar?"

"I like expecting the unexpected," Peter says, elusive as ever. His finger, slick from the lube, prods at Stiles' hole, and a little bit of lube slides down his crack, leaving him squirming. "Don't you?"

"I'm not so great with the unexpected," Stiles says, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth to bite raw when Peter pushes a finger into him. "I, ah. Prefer panicking and making snap judgments and not knowing what to do."

"So allow me to guess, you keep condoms in your—"

"Wallet, yeah," Stiles finishes for him, although it's a little difficult to focus, because Peter's easing a second finger in to the knuckle. Some guys don't have a clue when it comes to fingering, leaving Stiles to have to awkwardly push them away and do it himself, but Peter, _fucking Peter_ , of course he knows exactly what he's doing. "Even though I know you're not supposed to. It's bad for them. They're more likely to—to tear or something."

"Perhaps you should start leaving them in cookie jars instead," Peter says.

"Ha. Hilarious." Stiles wriggles his hips, trying to nudge Peter's fingertips against his prostrate, up until he realizes that Peter might be purposefully teasing him here. "You're trying to draw this out, aren't you?"

"No problem with that, is there?"

“Kind of,” Stiles grumbles. _I've been waiting months for this_ , he thinks about saying, but doesn't. “I'm waiting for you to hurry up and fuck me already.”

A third finger slips into him and Stiles lets out a choked gasp that catches on his throat, ass clenching down on Peter's knuckles. He can feel everything times a hundred, his nerves on ultra sensitive mode, and then Peter's twisting his fingers around to test Stiles’ tightness and Stiles’ thighs start to tremble. His tongue already opened him up splendidly, and now his fingers feel so fucking good, but Stiles has an idea as to what would feel even better.

“Oh, I don't intend to _hurry_ through any part of this,” Peter murmurs. “How's that feel?”

“Good, and you fucking know it,” Stiles says, stomach fluttering as pleasure kicks in like a tasering when Peter's fingertips finally find his prostate and catch him a little off-guard. “C’mon.”

“Shh,” Peter says, infuriatingly. He curves his fingers up, down, _just right_ , and then he's working his fingers in and out in a way that leaves Stiles gasping and clenching down on him. It's still not enough, it's still not as good as Peter's cock, and so Stiles keeps tightening his ass around Peter's fingers to give him an idea of just what he's missing, what he could be feeling all around him.

Peter seems to realize what he's doing, and refuses to be tempted. His hand comes down on Stiles’ ass cheek, smacking it.

“Uh uh,” he says, shaking his head. “You don't get my cock until I say you do.”

Stiles groans, his every limb on fire. This shouldn't be as hot as it is. All this should feel like a cheap porno, but it's like Stiles’ brain is swimming in a haze of lust, of mounting arousal, of hardness and trembling muscles, of _Peter_ , and it all ends up being unbelievably sexy. His hips stutter off the couch for a moment and Peter pushes him back down onto it before letting his hand slide up, playing with one of Stiles’ nipples again, rubbing it to attention.

“You're killing me,” he groans, by which he means, _why are you so fucking good at this_.

“You want to come like this first?” Peter asks, ignoring Stiles’ griping. “Being fucked by my fingers?” He punctuates the offer with a hard thrust of them into Stiles, twisting his wrist. “Or straight on my cock?”

“Door number two,” Stiles says. “God, ignore that pun. That was so not intended.”

“And also horrible,” Peter says. “I should spank you again for that.”

Stiles goes pink in the cheeks, grinning. “Yeah, you really should.” He shakes his head, because he has a goal in mind here. “Later. _Later_. For now, you gotta fuck me.”

Peter pulls his fingers out but keeps rubbing his fingertips against Stiles’ hole, pushing barely in and then back out, teasing, _tormenting_ , playing with the clenching muscle. “Say please.”

“You fucker,” Stiles moans. “ _Please_. Or I’m gonna tear your head off.”

“Macabre,” Peter says, but he sounds impressed. He smiles, then pulls his fingers entirely away from Stiles’ hole, squeezing his thighs instead. "On your knees," he whispers, and Stiles scrambles to comply.

He flips around on the couch, pushing his ass up to make sure Peter doesn’t belabor this any longer. God, Peter’s such a fucking tease, but Stiles knows the picture he must paint right now, sweaty and naked and ass on display, and if Peter’s not built entirely out of tin, he’ll react enough to cut the bullshit and fuck him already.

“How badly do you want my cock?” Peter asks, hands pulling Stiles’ ass cheeks apart.

“You are such a son of a bitch,” Stiles says. Peter’s thumb touches his hole and Stiles’ entire body jerks into it. “Badly. Very badly. I’m a bad student and I need my teacher to corrupt me, _now do it_.”

“Such good manners,” Peter says.

Peter thrusts into him with one clean swoop after that. It leaves Stiles' mouth hanging open and his palms a little sweaty on the leather, but it's also really damn good thanks to all of that laborious fingering, and Stiles rocks back into Peter's rhythm and lets himself be fucked, no complaints. It's been a while since he's done this, and he deserves this, even Isaac thinks so, so nothing's going to keep him from enjoying the moment as Peter squeezes his hips and rolls his cock in and out of his ass. 

“Dear god,” Stiles groans, struggling to even find the breath to speak. “That's—yes. Keep— _yes_.”

“Where are your full sentences?” Peter asks, but even he sounds a little unraveled.

“Fuck you,” Stiles says.

“I’m a little busy fucking you, actually.”

God, he’s cheeky. Stiles would gripe about that if Peter wouldn’t already be speeding up his thrusts, one hand curling around Stiles’ hip for leverage to push in even better, even stronger. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever had anyone fuck him this hard, this roughly, and he almost hates how much he’s getting off on it. Peter’s going to leave bruises on Stiles’ hipbones if he keeps holding on this tightly, but Stiles doesn’t mind, he doesn’t mind one bit, not even the way Peter pulls him onto his cock and maneuvers him wherever he wants him.

Stiles doesn't bother to filter his sounds. Those walls look thick, and Stiles is on cloud nine, and it's been ages since a cock has been this good to him, so he's going to be pretty damn loud about it. He thinks briefly back to the last time he had sex—too fast, borderline too much lube, and too many moves straight out of unrealistic porn—and wonders how this could be _so incredibly different_ , so good, so invigorating. Stiles has been picturing this for weeks, and shit you visualize and imagine and fantasize about is never as good as expected. And then there's fucking Peter, who apparently defies all odds in the most exasperating and magnificent ways.

It’s intoxicating. Each time Peter pulls out and sinks back in, Stiles feels his entire body clenching around him, gripping him, and then Peter slides one hand off Stiles’ hip to circle around his cock, stroking it until Stiles is a whining mess.

“That’s it,” Peter murmurs as he lays hot, open-mouthed kisses on Stiles’ back. “I want to hear you. Let me hear you.”

“Fuck,” Stiles groans. “‘S good.”

“More,” Peter growls, teeth sinking down into Stiles’ spine. “Better than that.”

“ _Peter_. Goddamn, you’re—this is—fuck, I can’t believe we’re finally doing this.” It’s as good as he imagined. No, it’s better, _much_ better than that. Stiles has never, ever had something live up to his expectations, and yet this is somehow rocking his expectations up to the moon, which is crazy, no, _bonkers_ , and so fucking incredible. “C’mon, don’t stop.”

“Say you love it,” Peter says. “Say you love being fucked by me.”

“Obviously I fucking do,” Stiles says, breathless. Peter’s hand comes down on his ass and Stiles gasps. “I do, I really do. Shit, _Peter_.”

Peter seems to be satisfied by that, because he murmurs approval onto Stiles’ skin and squeezes his cock, tugging it along the same rhythm he’s still keeping up with his thrusts. Stiles clearly hasn’t had good sex in a while, because compared with how Peter’s fucking him, everything else he remembers has been too fast or too sloppy or too wet, and now here’s Peter with his skilled hands and his magical dick and the way he keeps ramming in at that perfect spot that makes Stiles’ vision narrow.

How is he ever supposed to masturbate after this? He thinks Peter might be in the process of ruining that for him. Everything is just _perfect_ right now, from the hand jerking him off to the dick inside his ass to the noises Peter's making, and Stiles knows that he’s getting close. His entire body is overheating—it might even be steaming—and sweat is dotting his forehead and his muscles are tense with the force he's using to push back into Peter's thrusts, legs burning, eyes tearing, hands shaking.

They're going to have to do this everywhere. Absolutely everywhere, Stiles has decided. All over this apartment, all over the office, all over the back of movie theaters and parked cars and elevators and public restrooms, and even that doesn't feel like enough. Every inch of the earth won't be truly sacred until Stiles has Peter fucking him on it like this until his throat is raspy from moaning.

“Ever had it this good before?” Peter asks, and at least his voice sounds wrecked too. “Tell me, Stiles.”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles says, completely honest. “Never, fuck.”

“That's a good boy,” Peter responds, practically _purrs_ , all deep and rough in his throat, and then his hand comes down across Stiles’ ass cheek again—maybe he’s picking up on the fact that Stiles is really fucking likes that—and a surprise gasp pushes out of Stiles’ mouth. Stiles angles his ass upward to wordlessly encourage it, and Peter's pleased laughter is both embarrassing and thrilling. “Or are you maybe a bad boy?”

“Bad,” Stiles agrees. “Oh, so bad.”

Peter gets the hint. He spanks him again, hand firm as it slaps down on his ass cheek, first left, then right, then right again, and Stiles is left swallowing down moans and gripping down tight around Peter's dick. It makes Peter shift his legs and his cock pushes in at a different angle and it somehow changes everything, makes it all that much better, explodes a few confetti cannons behind Stiles’ eyes because suddenly Peter's cock is pressing in deep and right against that spot inside him, hard and steady and relentless.

Stiles comes almost without meaning to. It hits him kind of like a surprise party, like when you open the door and everyone jumps up and your heart shoots into the ceiling and wow, wasn't expecting that, and there Stiles goes, spilling over the couch and crying out and all but blacking out for a few seconds there, Peter's firm hands on his hips the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Peter says, voice practically a breathless snarl by now.

“Come on,” Stiles says, hanging his head when his neck gets too weak to hold it up. “Come on, harder, I can take it. I want you to come.”

“Come inside you?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles moans. It’s a complete blur after that, because Peter takes Stiles’ advice to heart and fucks him in earnest, cock thick and demanding and _deep_ inside Stiles, balls slapping against his ass. It’s the best, most thorough fucking Stiles has ever experienced, and when Peter comes, Stiles can practically feel all of it, can imagine how fucking hot it would be without the condom. Peter lets out the sexiest sound Stiles has ever heard, a low guttural moan that Stiles wants to commit to memory, and his hands dig in to Stiles’ hips like talons as he rides out his orgasms, thrusts getting soft.

“So good, so perfect,” Peter's saying into his hair, still rocking into him, short, shallow jerks of the hips that are almost too much for Stiles now. “You're lovely, Stiles.”

When he pulls out, Stiles lets his chin drop to his chest, his ass already feeling sore and his hair damp with sweat and his arms trembling with the exertion of holding himself up. Peter's fingers rub against his hole once his cock is free, playing with the stretched rim, and once a single finger slips easily into him, lube and sweat making it effortless, Stiles whines from the over-stimulation. Peter seems to understand without words easing the way and his finger slips right back out, the touches replaced by a fervent, warm mouth laying kisses on his lower back.

“Wonderful,” he's murmuring, one hand still squeezing Stiles’ ass cheek. “Bet I could get another orgasm out of you right now with my fingers.”

“ _Peter_ ,” Stiles whimpers.

“Later,” Peter promises. “What say you?”

Stiles laughs, letting himself melt into the sofa, sticky leather and all. His body's been transformed into pudding, into sexed out jelly, but still the idea of more sex to come is lighting a spark somewhere deep inside the insatiable center of his midsection. 

“I say hell yes,” he says, exhaling as Peter starts gently massaging the back of his thighs. He rests his cheek on the sofa, and the unfinished Chinese food on the coffee table catches his eye. “Do you wanna keep eating dinner first?”

“That,” Peter says, “is a fantastic idea.”

\--

So the sex doesn't stop there. They stop to eat some more Chinese food and listen to some of Peter's vinyl collection on his vintage turntable, then adjourn to the bedroom and give each other fantastic blowjobs, after which they pause again so Stiles can go through Peter's closet and make fun of his ridiculous taste and shoe polishing station, which is then followed by more sex, this time missionary style, and eventually proceeded by the early morning glow peeking in Peter's bedroom windows and reminding Stiles that he's not in a sex bubble and time is actually passing and he probably needs to leave at one point before the chafing begins.

"This was nice," Peter says after Stiles mentions leaving. "Don't you agree?"

"Yeah. You're a lot nicer to be around when you're naked."

Peter smiles. "Charming," he says. He's laying there in his bed, stark naked and only halfway covered by thin sheets while a pink dawn falls through his blinds and dapples his skin, leaving Stiles to feel like he's looking at a mythological god or some other such ridiculous concept. All this sex is twirling his world. Scrambling his brain. "Don't forget your jacket."

"Yeah." Stiles grabs his jeans and slips into the pant legs. "So this'll—I mean, this is happening again, right?"

"I don't see why not."

"So this is a thing? A thing that we're doing?" Stiles asks. He just needs some clarification to avoid another mistake like bringing takeout to a fuck buddy's place for a booty call. He's new at this and needs a damn handbook. "For real now?"

"If you're up for it," Peter says. "I certainly am."

Stiles nods carefully. This is going to be hella risky, he already knows that. And his job is on the line and his dignity definitely is too and is really good sex worth gambling all that anyway? He must be a total idiot, because Stiles can't think of anything other than yes as an answer. Maybe Peter's fucking bewitched him. Maybe that's why he's so irresistible and even now, Stiles has trouble buttoning up his jeans instead of kicking them back off and pouncing on top of Peter again. The way he's lying there, all cool and sensual and bare naked, it's like all he's missing is a cigarette and a Parisian siren floating in from outside the window. All this just feels so sexy and heavenly and and... out of Stiles' world.

“Can I ask a few more questions about the—well. The rules?”

Peter looks up at the ceiling. “Only if you stop referring to them as the _the rules_.”

“Fine.” Stiles zips up his jeans. “So what’s the deal here? Can we… see other people?”

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“I don’t care,” Peter says. “You realize we’re not in a relationship, don’t you?”

“Duh. Obviously.” He grabs his wrinkled t-shirt. "So—who is off limits here in terms of who we tell about this?" Stiles asks, gesturing between the two of them. "Can I tell Scott and Isaac?"

Peter stretches out on the mattress on Stiles' abandoned spot, curving his arms behind his head. "You can tell whoever the hell you want," he says. "No matter to me."

"Seriously?"

Peter shrugs. "If you want to show me off, who am I to stop you?"

Stiles seizes Peter's shirt off the floor and throws it on his head, or at least tries to, which is an attempt quickly thwarted by Peter's reflexes catching it before it can land on his nose. 

"You're kind of obnoxious, you know that?" Stiles says, pulling his shirt over his head. "I'm glad this is just sex."

"Same."

"Hey!"

\--

After that first time, things get a little crazy. And by crazy, Stiles means _really fucking good_.

Stiles has never had so much good sex in his life, especially not so consecutively. It's like Stiles and Peter's hands gravitate toward each other because of the tides or the moon or just general unrelenting horniness, because Stiles has trouble going longer than thirty minutes at work without making out with Peter in a vacant conference room. His concentration has never exactly been stellar, but it definitely goes downhill once Stiles is allowed to touch Peter whenever he'd like and spends all of his working day within spitting distance of Peter’s office. It's endless amounts of sex, days all blurred together into visions of naked legs and soft moaning and touching _everywhere_ , and before Stiles knows it, a few weeks have passed and there are very few places at work Stiles hasn't accidentally christened with Peter.

The sex happens everywhere. A bathroom stall up on the sixth floor. The basement pantry where all the extra printer paper is stacked up. An empty corner office that Stiles is trying to convince people is haunted. A stairwell.

"Somebody could—oh—somebody could totally catch us here," Stiles says against Peter's mouth, even as he grabs him by the collar and yanks him further under the stairs.

"Nobody uses the stairs," Peter dismisses, hand already working on Stiles' pants. "Everyone uses the elevator."

"There could be someone athletic who—who decides to do some stair-climbing," Stiles says, and even though this is his own mouth saying these words, his body is doing a horrible job of obeying. "Ooh. Maybe we should adjourn to the elevator."

"Elevator is monitored by security," Peter says. He raises an eyebrow. "You want to give someone a show?"

Stiles chuckles. "Ha. Maybe not," he says. "Stairwell it is."

He pulls Peter back in for another kiss. He's never felt anything like this—this all-consuming sexual arousal combined with this equally all-consuming panic at the prospect of getting caught red-handed. And for someone who is as attached to his job as Stiles, he sure is having sex at work _a lot_. The copy room (which he never appreciated until recently), Peter's office, the restroom, and just now, the stairwell.

Peter pushes Stiles' pants down to his thighs, moving his mouth to Stiles' neck to deliver a few solid bites that make Stiles shudder.

"You want me to make you come just on my fingers?" Peter murmurs onto his neck, breath hot on his skin. "I'm sure you could."

"I—fuck. Where's the fun for you there?"

"Trust me. It's there."

Peter doesn't waste any more time after that, a hand slipping into Stiles' underwear and fingers circling his hole. This is simultaneously the hottest and most stressful moment of Stiles’ life. At any moment, someone could walk in here, and that’s somehow both thrilling and terrifying. Stiles bites into his bottom lip to muffle the noise of his own moaning as Peter fingers him.

He comes, tightly-wound with an anxiety that his orgasm very nearly clashes directly into, eleven minutes later, muffling his noises into his own sleeve. He had no fucking clue before this that it's even possible to reach completion while worrying about your boss finding you having hot sex in a stairwell, but it's apparently possible. A few times before he comes, the sounds of passing footsteps echo nearby, which prompts Stiles to consider pulling the fire alarm over on the wall to his left just as a last resort, but each time Peter yanks his hand back and shakes his head, which is probably a smart decision, because Stiles can already see the disgruntled looks of all his coworkers as they stand out in the heat and wait for the fire department to clear the building while Stiles dies of shame.

It's not the only place they have close calls. Stiles pushes himself away from Peter just in time one day when they’re making out in the watercooler nook, and his boner all but withered away like a balloon losing air when Peter's phone suddenly started ringing while Stiles was grinding down on Peter's lap in his office. And then there's all the borderline not-safe-for-work talk that filters into their IM conversations, a window Stiles has made so unbelievably tiny on his screen that only people crouched behind his shoulder with binoculars could read all the filth Peter's sending his way. How something can be simultaneously so hot and so nerve-wracking is beyond Stiles.

How does the Dickens quote go again? It was the best of times, it was the worst of times? He clearly must've been in the throes of a steamy, forbidden office romance when he wrote that one.

\--

**To:** Stiles  
 **From:** Peter  
 **Subject** : tonight

_What do you say you come over to my place around seven? I’d make it worth your while._

**To:** Peter  
 **From:** Stiles  
 **Subject:** RE: tonight

_I say yes. Anything I should bring? Whipped cream? Chocolate sauce? Novelty handcuffs?_

**To:** Stiles  
 **From:** Peter  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: tonight

_I’m set. All you have to bring is your (preferably naked) self.  
And for the record, when I use handcuffs, I use quality handcuffs. Nothing you can buy in the corner of a joke shop._

"Hey."

Shit, shit, shit, Christ on a cracker.

Stiles minimizes Peter’s email just in time to hide the evidence as Isaac rounds the corner and leans his elbow against the cubicle wall, Stiles scrambling to find something semi-work-related to pull up onto his screen and struggling to keep himself from falling out of his chair as his heartbeat climbs up to dangerous levels. Where the fuck did he even come from?

"Hey," Stiles says, rolling his lips into his mouth. "What's going on?"

"Just wanted to let you know that we're all going to that Thai place on 5th tonight," Isaac says.

Stiles is kind of planning on spending the night in his birthday suit handcuffed to Peter's headboard, so no, that's a no on the dinner invitation. He's probably going to need a better excuse, though.

"Oh. Oh. I, um. Can't go."

Isaac's eyebrows inch closer together. "Why not?"

Stiles' hand finds the back of his head, petting the short hair there. Is this convincing? Is he being convincing here? "My cousin's in town," he pulls out of his ass. "He's coming over so we can catch up."

"Your cousin?"

"Yeah, my cousin." People have those. This is perfectly plausible.

"And what, we're not allowed to join you?" Isaac says, eyebrows closer still. "Ashamed of your best friends in the world or something?"

"What? No! I'm just—just not sure he's your crowd."

“What is he, a bloodthirsty ex-con?”

“Look, it’s just a family thing. I’ll make it up to you guys and pay for dinner next time, all right?” Stiles says, chewing on the inside of his cheeks while he waits for Isaac to pry a little more.

“Fine,” is what Isaac actually ends up saying, amazingly enough. “But we’re all ordering fucking filet mignon if you’re paying.”

Stiles nods. If this is the price he has to pay to have undisturbed sex for a night, he’ll pay it. 

“You're not going on a date, are you?” Isaac asks suddenly, just when Stiles thinks he's in the clear.

“What?” he squeaks out. “No. No, there's no date. I'm not dating my cousin. I'm not—ew. Come on.”

“Someone other than your cousin, you sicko.”

“No,” Stiles says again. He swallows, and it feels like the loudest, most deliberate swallow he's ever made in his life. “I would've told you. Why wouldn't I have told you?”

“Because you're weird and secretive,” Isaac says, which Stiles reluctantly supposes is true, even though he stands by the justification that he has logical reasons for this. “Whatever. You're coming next time.”

“Yeah, sure, done.” 

He watches Isaac walk away, wondering if there’s an invisible timer he can’t see ticking down the hours until his secret is blown. Stiles is typically pretty damn good at keeping secrets. He spent all of the nearly two decades he spent living at home hiding things from his ultra observant cop father, and somehow, that how feels like training, like _trial runs_ for this. And his father only ever found out what it was he was trying to sweep under the rug about, well, ninety percent of the time.

Stiles is really, really lucky that his friends aren't cops.

He pulls his inbox back open when the coast seems clear again.

**To:** Peter  
 **From:** Stiles  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: RE: tonight

_Sounds good. Sounds even better if you show me those fancy handcuffs of yours tonight._

He looks around the corner, peeking over his cubicle wall. Then, and only when he seems to be in safe territory, does he press send. He can only fucking pray that his computer isn't in view of any security cameras.

\--

Stiles only feels a little bad about the lie, made only slightly worse when Isaac texts him a photo of him and Scott at the restaurant together captioned with _suck on this fomo bitch_ , but then made almost instantaneously better when Peter lays Stiles out on the couch and teases him to hardness and then eats him out to completion. Hard to worry about Thai food when he's floating around in the untouchable bliss of his orgasms.

"I told Isaac that my cousin was coming over tonight," Stiles admits after they've moved over to the bed some handful of hours later. "He wanted me to come for dinner and I panicked a little bit and told him I was busy with my cousin."

Just a smidgen of moonlight is making it through the curtains by now. Stiles prefers doing this in daylight, if only because he gets to see every little detail of Peter's immaculate chest and firm thighs and curved hipbones, which is worth the price he pays of Peter also then being able to see Stiles’ pasty arms and unimpressive body and hairy legs. He looks over at the bedside lamp, thinking about Peter's body bathed in the yellow glow of a light turned on in the shadows, and feels himself get just a little bit harder.

"And you want me to rate you on believability?" Peter asks, hand trailing over Stiles’ stomach.

"What? No. I'm just telling you so I feel less bad about skipping out on getting food with my best friends."

"Why do you feel bad at all?" Peter asks. "You can't tell me that dinner with friends is somehow better than the sex we just had."

"Fine, no. I just feel guilty for lying, that's all."

"You can tell them about us if it makes that much of a difference for you."

No, no, not an option. Hell, Stiles doesn't even like the wording being used here— _about us_ makes it sound like there is an us, and there isn't, not with him and Peter. They're a convenient arrangement not extending past sex or any other primal needs. There's nothing to really tell and that's that.

“Uh, I think I’ll pass,” Stiles says.

“Why?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “’Cause the teasing would literally never stop?”

Peter smirks. “And why would that be?”

“Because—” Stiles stops himself, feeling the redness tickle his cheeks. Then again, he is lying here buck naked, so he’s not sure he should really be worried about feeling humiliated right now. “Because they were teasing me about having a crush on you for months, all right?” He covers his eyes with his palm, already uninterested in seeing Peter’s reaction. “They were wrong, I wasn’t crushing on you. I did want to bone you, but that’s the extent of it.”

“They knew, did they?”

“Well, let’s just say they liked to poke fun at the… I don’t know. Tension? Between the two of us.”

Peter’s smirk grows. He sits up and moves to straddle Stiles, grabbing his wrists and pinning them next to his head. “Well, there’s definitely tension.” He rocks down, gauging Stiles’ interest in the situation, and Stiles can do little but press up and let him feel the swell of his quickly growing erection. “And what would they say if they knew you were here about to be fucked by me?”

“They’d make fun of me for weeks,” Stiles says, already feeling slightly faint because of Peter’s steady thrusting against him. “And then clap. And then put me in a headlock for not telling them sooner.” He doesn’t want to talk about this anymore, and certainly doesn’t want to think about his goober best friends while Peter’s naked on top of him. He grabs Peter’s hips, shaking his head. “Can we talk about something else? Something more in-tune with what we’re doing?”

“Ah. And what are we doing?” Peter asks, smirk wide.

“Hopefully having sex ASAP. The sooner the better.”

“So we’re on the same page.”

Peter leans down and kisses him before Stiles can say another word, which Stiles has absolutely no problem with. He winds his hands into Peter’s hair, feeling pleasantly melted and comfortable and boneless here under Peter’s body, slipping his tongue into Peter’s mouth and taking his time. It starts out slowly up until Peter’s hands squeeze at his sides, the bit that’s just toeing the line between ticklish and erogenous, and Stiles takes that as a cue that the idle chatting portion of the evening is over again.

It's unfair just how intoxicating Peter is in bed. His mouth is downright sinful, from how it's sucking on Stiles’ lower lip to how it's traveling over to his neck and leaving him a mean hickey, one Stiles isn't even going to complain about even though he's going to have to think up a way to explain why an evening with his cousin resulted in lovebites on his neck.

"I have an idea," Peter murmurs, and suddenly he's leaning over the bed and opening his bedside drawer. Stiles turns around, watching him rummage through the drawer, and what he pulls back with is—

"A butt plug?" Stiles says, slightly incredulous. "What else do you have in that sexy drawer of yours?"

"I was thinking," Peter says, arching in close and nibbling Stiles' chest, the heaving part right over his left pec. "I'll finger you open, nice and slow." He licks over the same patch of skin he's paying attention to. "And I'll slide this inside you, and you'll wear it all day tomorrow."

"At—at work?"

"Uh huh," Peter says. "And you don't get to come until I take it out of you tomorrow evening."

Stiles' mouth is suddenly a little dry. He licks his lips, trying to bring moisture back to his tongue.

"Um. I'd be cool with that."

"Good boy," Peter murmurs on his skin, then squeezes his hip. "Legs up."

Stiles does so, a pulse of nerves and excitement shaking him for a moment as he does so, hitching his folded knees up to his chest. Peter edges closer, stroking his thighs and eyes riveted to Stiles' exposed hole, the look on his face just short of being predatory, and squeezes his legs.

"Hmm," Peter murmurs. "I have a thought, if you'll indulge me."

"A thought?"

Peter runs his hands up the underside of Stiles' thighs just one more time before reaching up and grabbing his wrists, leading them up to Stiles' headboard. Stiles swallows.

"How do you feel about belts?" Peter asks, grinning, and there's that predatory, wolfish smile again that makes Stiles both scared and aroused simultaneously.

"I do," he says. "This feels a little Fifty Shades-like. Tell me that's not where we're headed."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Please," he says. "Don't insult me."

"Sure."

Peter gets off the bed to open the sleek armoire by his bed, inside of which there are meticulously organized ties, belts, cufflinks, and what seem to be cravats Peter stole off of a British diplomat. Stiles nearly laughs; his own wardrobe is a complete mess is comparison to Peter. The only two belts he owns are under his bed next to his pajama pants, an old hoodie, and some socks he keeps meaning to wash. He props himself up on his elbows and watches as Peter pulls two creaseless leather belts from the armoire door.

"Just so you know,” Stiles says, “I'm not signing any sex contracts."

"Good to know," Peter says, pushing him back down onto the bed and stealing one quick kiss from him before getting to work fastening his wrists to the headboard. It's a bit of an odd sensation, the leather cool against his skin as Peter wraps it around him and secures his hand to the top of the bed, but Stiles has to shamefully admit, there's something alluring about this, this transfer of power, this quiet trust. He can feel himself hardening just as the second belt clinks into place, and when he looks down, yeah, he's not the only one getting excited here. His hands twitch, looking to seek out Peter's thick cock, but the belts keep him steadfastly in place.

"This is grueling," Stiles says, biting down on Peter's shoulder as Peter settles above him, legs bracketing Stiles’ hips. "I can't even have my way with you."

"It's been thirty seconds," Peter says. "And I'm afraid tonight, you'll be busy with me having my way with you."

A flutter of heat coils its way up Stiles' stomach, something in Peter's voice and the hidden promise of thorough debauchery under his words already driving Stiles wild. Peter's hands slide down his arms, then his chest, then return to Stiles' thighs, folding his legs back up again. He kisses the bend of his knee, the curve of his calf, the soft skin on the inner part of his thigh, all probably efforts to get Stiles panting and his chest heaving, efforts that aren't going wasted. Stiles wishes he could hold onto something—Peter's hair, Peter's arms, Peter's shoulders—but there's something about not being able to touch him at all that's doing a remarkable job of turning Stiles on, especially when Peter ups the ante and suckles on the head of his cock.

" _Ohhhh_ sweet lord," Stiles moans, letting his eyes fall shut. He curls his hands into fists where they're strapped away as Peter alternates between slow, torturous licks and harsh, deliberate sucking, air supply suddenly coming in a little short for Stiles. What happened to all the oxygen in this room?

Somewhere in between Peter rubbing his balls and taking him deep into his mouth, Stiles registers the sound of a cap of lube popping open, and then, shooting straight though the sexy haze Stiles is trapped in, Peter's slicked index finger pushes in to the knuckle and leaves Stiles whimpering. He's still a little stretched from all the rimming earlier, Peter's finger sliding in easily.

"What do you feel?" Peter asks, letting Stiles' cock slip out of his mouth.

"Good. _Ah_. I feel really fucking good."

"Mm," Peter says, adding a second finger and probably very much enjoying the way Stiles' back curves off the bed for a moment. "If I could, I'd take you right now. Fuck you just like this, nice and slow, and then come inside you before I fill you up with that plug. How does that sound?"

Stiles whines, because yeah, that sounds pretty damn amazing. They've never gone bareback before, but now Stiles is wishing they would just so he can feel Peter spilling inside him, all warm and thick and _so good_. He clenches around Peter's fingers just thinking about it.

"Wouldn't—wouldn't be very responsible."

Peter chuckles. He's spreading his fingers wide inside Stiles now, easing him open. "No, it wouldn't," he agrees. "And you're all about the rules, aren't you, sweetheart?"

"I'm not," Stiles says, because he really isn't, never has been, but something about Peter is already so rebellious, so risky, that Stiles almost feels like he has to balance out the scales when they're together. He hitches one of his legs over Peter's shoulder, trying to drive him closer.

"Well, don't worry," Peter says, pressing a kiss against Stiles' thigh, mouth warm. "I'm not planning on fucking you tonight."

"What?"

"That's going to have wait until tomorrow," Peter says. "I want you nice and wound up for me." He bites into Stiles' skin, pulling a helpless groan out of his throat. "I want you to beg for my cock."

"Hnn," Stiles says. There are stars behind his eyelids, and Stiles pulls against his restraints, wanting desperately to reach down and hold onto Peter's hips, to pull him closer and rut against his thigh. "Don't think that'll be too hard."

"And if you're a good boy," Peter continues, "I'll even let you come now before then." He pushes his fingers in with a firmness that was missing before, landing smack against his prostate. He doesn't relent like Stiles expects, rubbing almost mercilessly against it until Stiles is nearly sobbing, the sensations too much and too good and pulling him so close to the edge. "But only if you ask nicely."

" _Fuck_ ," Stiles pants. "Please let me come. Fuck, Peter, _please_." 

He can't wait until tomorrow if Peter doesn't let him, he just can't. He's hard as a rock right now and doesn't want to spend tomorrow sitting on blue balls while he's at work, to say nothing of the butt plug that'll be in his ass all the while. He bites his lip, a little too hard, and tastes a flash of blood when his tongue slides out to soothe the pain.

"Again," Peter says, voice rougher than before. Stiles thinks he's close, too close to bother pleading for it, but then Peter's easing his fingers back and slowing down their pace and leaving Stiles teetering on the edge again. "Tell me what you want."

"I wanna come—please, please, _shit_ , Peter. Right there. C'mon, let me come."

He's beyond the point of being embarrassed by now. His entire torso is trembling and his legs aren't any better off, his body desperate for that snap of release, and Peter seems to be in a giving mood, because his laugh vibrates against Stiles' thigh right before he takes his cock back into his hand and rubs his fingertips deep inside him again.

"Go ahead," he says, and Stiles does, thighs seizing up as he feels the unwinding knots of pleasure wash down his body and push outward, come splattering on his stomach.

By the time he opens his eyes, his eyeballs are a little sore from squeezing shut just a little too hard and his lower lip is throbbing from that particularly aggressive self-inflicted bite earlier, but he's also awash in sexual afterglow and feeling pretty damn good about himself, so everything else can wait.

"You're perfect," Peter's saying after Stiles stops shaking, his mouth kissing a hot, reverent trail around Stiles' hips. "Has anyone ever told you just how _perfect_ you are?"

"No," Stiles says, words coming out breathlessly as he speaks. "That's a new one for me."

Peter cuts him off with a hard kiss to the mouth, one that Stiles whimpers into when Peter's fingers rub against his hole again a moment later. His free hand grips Stiles' side, thumb brushing over the curve of a rib. 

"Breathe in for me," he instructs, then pushes the lubed plug in just as Stiles inhales. "There's a good boy."

He kisses him again, swallowing up all the gasps and groans escaping Stiles' throat as Peter slides the plug into place and gets it where he wants it. It goes in easily after all that extensive fingering and that brain-boggling orgasm, but it still feels strange, especially when compared to the strong heat of Peter's length. This is a little too stiff in comparison, a little too plastic, but Stiles has to admit that the idea of wearing it tomorrow and hiding it from everyone else and hiding it like a filthy little secret is turning him on way more than it should.

“You’re so motherfucking weird,” Stiles says when Peter pulls back. “I can’t believe you get off to this.”

“The plan is for both of us to,” Peter says, giving him one last smack to the ass before retreating, like as a promise for later. “And I think you will.”

Of course Stiles will. Peter might get off to some strange shit, but Stiles gets off to pretty much the exact same things, so he knows that tomorrow is going to be an agonizing cocktail of pleasure, impatience, annoyance, and of course, startling, intoxicating levels of hotness.

“You're almost too much for me, you know that?” Stiles says, pulling Peter back up to eye-level and weaving his fingers into his hair.

Peter's mouth quirks. “Almost,” he repeats. “But not quite?”

Stiles smiles. “Yeah.”

\--

The butt plug idea, as sexy as it seems in theory, definitely veers a little bit more into embarrassing territory once it’s no longer him, Peter, a dark bedroom, and soft sheets. In the light of day and surrounded by cubicles and his coworkers, Stiles has the unnerving feeling that everybody can tell with just one glance that he’s got a plug in his ass.

It also doesn’t help that the longer he keeps this damn thing in, the more sensitive he gets, to say nothing of the pothole-ridden road he drove on this morning to get to work. He doesn’t know why he’s keeping this damn butt plug in. He could’ve taken it out last night when Peter left, could’ve just _pretended_ to have it in all night and made life easier on himself, but he has this unnerving feeling that Peter would just _know_.

He’s sensitive to the point of madness by the time lunch time is nearly there, squirming and wriggling and snapping at anyone who so much as makes a benign comment in his direction. He needs to get fucking _laid_ , and immediately at that. He can’t concentrate on work and emails and shit like this when he’s sitting on a butt plug. There’s just no way. And Peter, the asshole, he probably knew that.

“Hey,” someone says from behind him, and when Stiles turns around, there's Isaac, which is just fucking perfect right now. “How was your dinner with your _cousin_ last night?”

“The air-quotes around cousin are unnecessary,” Stiles says, shifting back and forth on his desk chair. He's grievously aware right now of the fact that he's never actually spoken to Isaac before while there's a butt plug in his ass. First time for everything. “It was fine.”

“You missed a good time, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got the texts,” Stiles says, trying to telekinetically will Isaac far, far away. “Next time.”

“What'd you guys do?”

“Me and my cousin?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, you know,” Stiles says. Why does this plug make it impossible to concentrate on any human task, like pushing words together in a logical order? “Nothing exciting. Watched a movie.”

“And naturally, you didn't think to invite us.”

“I thought you two were out carousing together,” Stiles grits out, shifting. “I saw the pictures.”

“Still would've appreciated the invite.”

Stiles rolls onto his right thigh, then his left, and swears he feel the plug go even deeper.

“Listen, I really have to get back to work,” Stiles says, gripping onto his mouse for dear life. “I'm really swamped today. Flooded. Overwhelmed with work.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Isaac says. “Oh, and did you get the email about the engineering project?”

Dear lord, can this conversation drag on any longer? “I did.”

“All right, well, send me a reply when you get the chance.”

Isaac leaves, _finally_ fucking leaves, not like it even matters, considering that he's still at work and still completely unable to do anything work-related no matter how hard he tries because there's a very distracting object in his ass.

He breaks around eleven thirty in the morning. He grabs his phone and texts Peter, leaving all punctuation off just so Peter knows that he isn’t fucking around here.

**Stiles @ 11:31:** _I’m going to fucking murder you if you don’t come here right now and finish what you started last night_

**Peter @ 11:33:** _I’m in a meeting._

**Stiles @ 11:33:** _I don’t fucking care._

**Stiles @ 11:33:** _I’m dragging you out of that meeting by your ears I swear to god._

**Stiles @ 11:34:** _I’m going to your office right fucking now and you better be heading there._

Stiles doesn't care if Peter's meeting is with Barack fucking Obama. He's put Stiles in this hell, and he's done it on purpose, so he's going to push Stiles over his desk and give him the orgasm he's been aching for all day long.

**Peter @ 11:35:** _Fine._

Stiles jams his phone into his pocket and storms his way to Peter’s office, not particularly caring who sees him doing so. He normally makes an effort to be discreet, to make sure everybody’s occupied with work before he sneaks off for a quick feeling-up behind closed doors, but not today. Not fucking today.

Peter’s office is still empty when he lets himself in. He wants to maul Peter when he comes through that door—violently or sexually, that’s still up for debate. Stiles is shuddering all over, desperate to be touched, for Peter to give him what he wants, for Peter to march his ass out of that meeting. Stiles doesn’t care if the CEO of the company is there giving out millionaire bonuses, he better get himself here _now_.

Stiles yanks Peter in by the shirt the second the door so much as tips open, pushing their lips together hard enough for Stiles’ teeth to hurt. The good news is, Peter seems to be on board with this plan, because he doesn’t waste any time wrapping his arms around Stiles and squeezing his ass, pulling his cheeks apart just enough to make Stiles whine in his mouth.

“You fucker,” Stiles says, biting on Peter’s lower lip _just because_. “Get my pants off _now_.”

Peter seems extremely, annoyingly entertained by all this, squeezing Stiles’ ass one more time before grabbing him by the forearms and steering him toward his desk. Stiles is more than eager to get this show on the road, hands flexing with pent-up energy, and he works on his own pants, trying to kick them off as fast as possible.

“Relax,” Peter says, opening a drawer in his desk and pulling out—wow, that’s lube, definitely lube.

“You—you seriously keep lube at work?”

“Lucky for you,” Peter says, helping Stiles undress with one more rough tug to the fabric of his pants, pushing them out of the way and his underwear too. “Lean over the desk.”

“Lean over—yeah, yeah, fuck yes.”

He does, elbows hard on the desk. Peter’s movements aren’t nearly as frenzied as Stiles’—instead, his hands are methodical, fingers slow where they’re kneading and rubbing down Stiles’ lower back and cupping his ass, drawing this out long enough to have Stiles bubbling at the mouth. He lifts his hips to try and draw Peter’s attention to his ass, to where the plug has been driving him crazy all day, and obviously Peter notices, but he’s still _not doing anything about it_ , too busy massaging the back of his thighs.

“Peter,” Stiles grits out. “Please just—just fucking do it already.”

“I told you I wanted to hear you beg,” Peter murmurs. His thumb just barely traces around the rim of Stiles’ sensitive hole, still a little slick with lube, causing Stiles to jolt and hang his head. “Let me hear you.”

“Fuck. Please. Please, Peter, come on.”

“More.”

“ _Please_ , you kinky son of a bitch,” Stiles says, his words cut off on a sharp gasp when Peter pulls the plug out and immediately replaces it with two of his fingers, crooking them upwards. He can’t believe Peter gets off on this, on watching Stiles beg and gasp and squirm around his fingers, but then again, he can, because it’s Peter, and Peter’s a weird, sexy nightmare.

Peter twists his fingers inside of him in a steady, frustratingly slow rhythm, edging away from his prostate each time he gets close, and no matter how much Stiles whines and tries to rut backwards into his touch, Peter holds him firm with a hand to the hip, keeping him in place. His cock is aching, desperate to be touched, and Stiles rests his forehead on the cool desk as he tries to regulate his breathing. Peter’s thumb is rubbing his reddened entrance, pressing into where his fingers are stretching his hole, driving Stiles’ breath out of him in sporadic gasps as he gets harder and harder.

“Okay,” Peter says, and suddenly his fingers are slipped free, all of his touch gone. “That’s enough.”

It take Stiles a few moments to realize that Peter’s not touching him anymore. “What?” He lifts his head from the desk, looking over his shoulder. Peter’s at least a good foot away from him, and—what? “What are you doing?”

“I think you've had enough for now,” Peter says, and he gives Stiles a perfunctory pat to the ass like he's a child who's had enough ice cream and needs to wait until his sugar rush cools down.

“I haven't,” Stiles says, wriggling. “I definitely absolutely haven't.”

Another pat, although this one is more of a slow rub. “That's my decision.”

"Are you—you're not serious."

"I am," Peter says, fingertips now lightly rubbing around Stiles' pulsing entrance, every touch lighting Stiles on fire. "Now get back to work. I have a meeting I left that I'm needed in."

Stiles can hardly believe this. His legs are still shaking so much that he's not sure he'll even be able to find his footing, and there's Peter, smiling at him like a devil freshly crawled out of hell, straightening out the wrinkles in his shirt.

"No," Stiles says. "No, you're not doing this to me."

"I am," Peter says. He slides his hand over the nape of Stiles' neck, leaning over until his lips are tickling Stiles' ear. "Leave it in, and after work, I'll reward you."

"After—are you fucking kidding?" Stiles says, standing up straight. He needs to come, he _needs_ to fucking come, and he's at a point of desperation right now where he's close to humping Peter's leg to make that happen. "After work? That's—that's hours from now."

"I know," Peter says. "Patience is a virtue."

"I'm going to kill you for this."

Peter grabs him by the lapels of his shirt, reeling him in until Stiles is stumbling against him. "You're going to love it," he promises, sealing said promise with a long kiss against his mouth. "See you at five. Come 'round to my office then."

“I'm going to kill you,” Stiles says again. 

\--

Stiles very nearly leaves. He can't focus on anything—not his work, not his coworkers, not anyone speaking so much as one syllable to him. He's half-hard all afternoon long after he leaves Peter's office, which is both extremely embarrassing and making him a little light of head. Not to mention resourceful, as he keeps having to find random office supplies to place nonchalantly in front of his crotch to hide his chub whenever someone approaches him.

He's already formulated a plan to murder Peter for this torture, and the plan would probably be a lot more foolproof if the distraction in his ass wasn't making it impossible to think clearly.

Distantly, foggily, Stiles has enough functioning brain cells left to acknowledge that no one's ever driven him wild like this before. No one's ever been quite so _creative_ before either, or so devoted to watching Stiles totally lose it, or so determined to push him to insanity. He kind of appreciates the effort. Just—not so much right now.

At four p.m., he takes the situation into his own hands.

He knows that Peter has a meeting with Marin Morrell from HR at four thirty, so he launches a preemptive strike to alleviate some of his own pain.

“Hey,” Stiles says after he heads down to the HR department and finds Morrell’s desk. He drums his knuckles, tightly squeezed, on top of it. “Mr. Hale wanted me to let you know that he can't make your meeting. He had to go home early.”

“Really?” she says, looking up from her work. “Did he say why?”

“Pet emergency,” Stiles says immediately. He had the elevator ride to work out the details of this plan. “He has a cat that won't stop throwing up, so.”

“A cat that won't stop throwing up?”

“Yes,” Stiles says, shifting his legs. “Just—won't stop. We’re talking projectile. Cat vomit is everywhere. All over his suits.”

He might be overselling here. He cuts himself off, looking at Morrell with what he's hoping is the face of an honest man sharing the truthful story of an endlessly vomiting house pet. She squints at him a little bit, twirling her pen this way and that, before she sighs in resignation.

“Can he reschedule to tomorrow at three?”

“I'll make sure that he can,” Stiles says. “Thanks, thank you very much, happy birthday.”

She looks at him like he's off his rocker, which he might as well be; he has no idea what he's saying and feels borderline delirious. He turns around and hightails it over to the elevator before he says anything else mind-numbingly stupid, or worse, combusts into a poof of smoke because the plug up his ass is pushing him toward complete insanity.

He doesn't stop for anyone once he makes it back to the third floor and has Peter's office and only Peter's office in mind, not even Greenberg, who sees him and says something about data or emails or pizza for lunch tomorrow, Stiles whipping directly past him.

This is an emergency, an emergency of—literally—asshole proportions and Stiles needs to see a man about a butt plug.

He doesn't knock on the door when he reaches Peter's office. He barges in without shame.

"Do something," Stiles says immediately, already staggering over his pant legs in his haste to get them off. "Now."

Peter looks at this sorry scene of Stiles hurrying to undress himself with the fervor of a man with poison ivy in his clothes, then at his wristwatch. “You should know, I have a meeting in—”

“No, you don't,” Stiles says. “I took care of it.”

“Oh, Stiles. You didn't.”

“I did,” he says as he pushes his pants down his legs. That fucking button took forever. Why are buttons so small and buttonholes even smaller? “ _Do something_.”

Peter smiles, then pets his lap. "Come on then."

Stiles all but runs over, shrugging his jacket off along the way and leaving a trail of clothing from the door to Peter's office chair, which is the sort of mess he might care about ten to twenty minutes from now when he can focus again on things other than just his own blinding need to come. He yanks open the drawer he now knows Peter keeps lube in and there it is, rolling around next to packets of condoms and a stapler and spare pens. He grabs a condom and the tube and pushes it into Peter's hands and lets him get busy with preparing all that while he tosses his underwear away and climbs into Peter's lap. The chair can take it. The chair was built with wear and tear and rough sex in mind.

"Come on," he says, already moaning. "If I have to wait one more second—"

"Shh," Peter says. "Just relax."

He reaches around Stiles' back to grab his ass, maneuvering him closer before slipping down to his entrance. Stiles is close to sobbing from how sensitive he's become, the skin slippery and sore around his hole as Peter pulls the plug free and teases the rim of his entrance with his fingertips. He whines, ducking his head and leaning his forehead against Peter's shoulder.

“You didn't disobey today, did you, Stiles?” he murmurs. “Didn't come before now?”

“No,” Stiles whines. Not that he didn't think about it, but he held out like the idiot he is.

“Good boy,” Peter says. “You did so well," he's praising in his ear, although Stiles is hardly registering any of it. He ruts against Peter's thigh, his chest, anything to help out with the raging boner he's been trying to keep under wraps at work for the past few hours—to say nothing of just how faint it's made him—and tries to find the relief of friction, wishing Peter was wearing less clothing right now.

"Just fuck me already," Stiles demands. "I deserve it."

Peter slides a finger into Stiles' hole instead of actually listening, feeling the slick, stretched walls and devoting just that much more time to teasing the fuck out of Stiles. It seems like eternities pass while he's gliding his index finger in and out of Stiles, playing with him, and Stiles can do little but rock down into it and bite onto the fabric of Peter's blazer.

"Lift up," Peter says after eons of this, tapping Stiles' hipbone with his unoccupied hand.

Stiles does, giving Peter enough room to unzip and unbuckle and expose his cock, the sight of it almost mouth-watering by now. Stiles watches with rapt want as Peter rolls the condom on and slicks himself up, his hand somehow never losing rhythm pushing in and out of Stiles all the while. Peter's just—he's almost inhuman, is what it is. He's good at darts and multi-tasking and fingering Stiles into oblivion and people with that many talents are dangerous, just plain untrustworthy, and Stiles mentally reminds himself to look into later when he isn't busy about to be fucked, hopefully thoroughly.

“C’mon,” he groans, burying his nose in Peter’s neck again and grinding down against his thigh. He’s so hard he could cry, to say nothing of how hyper-sensitive he is, and if he doesn’t get what he wants soon, he might just throttle Peter with his bare hands. “If you don’t put your fucking dick in me in the next few seconds, I’m doing it myself.”

“You’re fucking yourself?”

“I just might,” Stiles warns. “ _Peter_.” He's been patient, he's been good; and he's _fucking dying here_.

“It's not a horrible idea,” Peter says, teasing his cockhead against the crack of Stiles’ ass. “How about you ride my cock for me, Stiles?”

Stiles has absolutely no problem with that. Peter's desk chair was _built_ for this position, what with the wide armrests and the plush cushions and the ability to lean back so very far. Stiles just moans, unable to articulate just how much he wants that, but Peter's clearly looking for more than just wordless whimpers as a response.

“Stiles,” he says, voice sharper. He grabs hold of Stiles’ chin, pulling it forward until Peter can look him in the eye. “I'd like to see you ride me.”

“You got it,” Stiles says. His voice doesn't even sound like his own anymore, too blubbering, too needy, but he's too far gone to worry about that. “One riding, coming up.”

“Good.”

Peter seals the idea with a firm kiss, his tongue sliding over Stiles’ and his mouth insistent. Stiles kisses back, borderline desperately, but only manages to do so for about another twenty seconds before his impatience wraps him up like a snake squeezing him too tightly around the middle. Peter's still running his cock along Stiles’ ass, but Stiles pushing his thighs stubbornly downward until the head of Peter's dick catches on Stiles’ hole seems to encourage Peter to speed this process along. He smiles against Stiles’ lips, teasing his cockhead against Stiles’ entrance.

“You seem impatient,” he says.

“Fuck this,” Stiles says, and takes matters into his own hands by sinking down on Peter’s cock.

The relief is tantamount to the feeling of sliding into a hot bath after a long day. Peter feels immeasurably good inside him, has from the first moment they had sex and Stiles first tasted the feeling of Peter’s dick sliding into him, and try as it might, that plug just didn’t compare. He lets out a full-body shudder, mouth falling open, and grabs Peter’s shoulders for support as he gets settled and sits down on his thighs, cock deep inside.

Peter seems to be affected to, at least, because when Stiles looks at him, his bottom lip is red where his teeth have bitten in and his eyes are shut, like he’s floating in the sensation of Stiles taking his cock so fast. Stiles tests the waters, lifting up just enough to circle his hips, and Peter groans. The sound makes Stiles want to never stop doing this, just spend the rest of his life bouncing on Peter’s dick and pulling choked moans from his throat.

“Can I move,” Stiles asks, “or are you gonna shoot your load way too soon if I do?”

Peter shakes his head, a huffed breath leaving his nose. “Move,” he says.

“You sure you can control yourself?”

“Stiles,” he orders, voice ragged. “ _Move_.”

Stiles listens. He eases himself up and straight back down again, eyes fixated on Peter's face, how his mouth opens on a long moan, how these pleased little exhales leave him, how hungrily he's surveying Stiles as he slowly starts rocking up and down on his dick. Peter's reactions and the looks on his face are just as good if not better than the actual feeling of it all, Stiles feeding off of Peter's response and how clear it is that he's completely unrestrained and taut with need.

The best part might be that Stiles is pretty sure that Peter's desk chair was built for this very thing, for increasingly rough sex. The way it moves with them, rolls with the movements, how soft the armrests are under Stiles’ tightly-gripped hands. This is Peak Office Sex: fucking in a desk chair, trying to be as quiet as possible, squeezing in sex in between meetings. Stiles is fucking _reveling_ in it.

“Imagine if someone came in here and saw you like this,” Peter says, eyes hooded as Stiles rides him. “All stretched out and gorgeous on my cock.” He slides a hand down Stiles’ chest before slipping it around to his back and cupping his ass, digging his nails in each time the muscle contracts as Stiles pushes down and pulls him back up. “You’re such a sight to behold, Stiles.”

Stiles’ mouth is almost too dry to respond. He swallows, trying to find his breath. “I’d rather have no one interrupt us.”

“Oh, I agree,” Peter says. “I don’t want anyone else but me seeing you like this.”

“Really?” Stiles’ chest fills with heat, but he stamps that down and says, “Kinda possessive.”

“Absolutely,” Peter confirms. He leans in and bites on Stiles’ ear, hands reaching for Stiles’ waist to pull him down on his length and get him in even deeper, and he mumbles something that Stiles’ moan completely drowns out but sounds almost like _mine, you’re mine_.

God, is Stiles getting warm. He leans in and presses his forehead against Peter's and finds that his face is incredibly hot, just like how Stiles feels, overheated and damp with sweat and wishing he could just tear off every piece of clothing and do this as loudly and shamelessly as he wants. He wishes they were in Peter's bed, Peter stretched out underneath Stiles while Stiles rode him there, no need for shushing each other or hurrying up to avoid getting caught. It's like the more they do this, the more sex they have, the more Stiles wants to draw it out and savor it and really soak it up to the fullest, like when he's eating exceptional chocolate and the last thing he wants to do is hurry through the box. Peter deserves to be heard and seen and sucked off somewhere Stiles can really appreciate him, somewhere that isn't an office with bad fluorescent lighting and paper-thin walls, and he's pretty sure all that's the whole point of a company romance, but Stiles just can't help himself. He wants Peter _everywhere_ , wholly, fully.

Making Stiles’ very point, Peter says, “Shh,” and traps Stiles’ lower lip between his teeth to quiet him, tugging at it, because Stiles has apparently been making soft, whimpering noises without realizing it. Stiles groans, and Peter's teeth bite down harder. “ _Shhh._ ”

Fuck that, fuck him. Everybody's probably thinking that Peter's watching porn in here if they can hear them, and come on, who hasn't sneaked onto RedTube at least once during a super boring work day just for kicks? Stiles wants to be loud, goddamnit.

“Stop it,” Stiles says. “I'm riding your dick, of course I’m making noise.”

“Trust me,” Peter says, “I would love nothing more than to hear you be at your loudest. The rest of the office, however...”

Stiles knows he has a point, so he shuts Peter and himself up by leaning in and kissing him, parting his lips and licking into Peter's mouth and slotting them together, every last inch of them, trying to get as close as he can to the heat of Peter's mouth, his lips, that talented fucking tongue.

He can't keep the kiss up for too long, though, because the way he's bouncing on Peter's dick is starting to get erratic, losing some of its finesse to make way for messy enthusiasm. Stiles doesn't care; he unabashedly loves this position, how deep it gets Peter's cock in him, how it lets him be in charge. The wonderful vantage point he has of Peter's expression, from the dilated, heavy look in his eyes to the way he keeps licking his lips after he groans. 

“You love this?” Peter murmurs, one hand slipping up his chest, tweaking his nipple, pinching it. “You love being fucked open by my cock?”

Stiles nods, because he does, and he loves _this_ , he loves riding Peter even somewhere as risky as at work, in his office, getting closer and closer to orgasm with each roll of his hips.

“More,” Peter demands, fingers curling into Stiles’ hair, gripping onto the short strands. “Show me how much you want it, Stiles.” Stiles lets out a broken whine, Peter’s words like a flame heating up his gut, and rocks down harder, losing the smoothness of his rhythm. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes out. Is the room short on oxygen or is the steamy haze of sex he’s swirling around in making him think that? “Been close all damn day.”

“Mm,” Peter says, sounding absolutely _delighted_ by that. He pushes his hips up, meeting Stiles’ rocking, and that combined with the skidding of Stiles’ cock against Peter’s stomach is too much, it’s just too good.

He comes all over Peter's stomach, much too loudly to be appropriate for the office, and is only cut off from his mid-orgasm groan by Peter slapping a hand over his mouth. Stiles doesn't care; something about it makes it all the hotter, and that something might just be that Stiles actually enjoys the way Peter takes such control—not so much out of the proverbial bedroom, but one hundred and ten percent in said proverbial bedroom.

He almost, stupidly, just like last night, wishes Peter wasn't wearing a condom. He can still feel the warmth, the pulsing of Peter's cock, the intensity of his resulting growl, but he knows it would feel ever better without the condom in the way. Stiles would just go ahead and ask them both to get tested already to make this sex dream come true, but how 

“Can we go home,” Stiles pants, arms sweaty around Peter’s neck. “Your home, my home. Someone’s home.”

“Yes,” Peter says, biting down on Stiles’ neck in what seems to be an affirmation. 

\--

"So if I wasn't there," Stiles says, propping his chin up on Peter's bare chest, hands tickling over his abdomen. "Who would you sleep with at work?"

The good news is, Stiles is no longer as tightly wound as a coil in a ballpoint pen. Peter saw to that the second they headed for Stiles’ place, laying Stiles out on the bed and kissing him—almost worshipfully—on every inch of his body, murmuring things Stiles couldn’t quite make out but that sounded a little like what was probably Peter’s inner monologue during the work day while Stiles was wearing that plug.

Needless to say, he’s very satisfied now. He’s naked and sweaty and feels like he just took a long, wonderful nap, except that nap had orgasms and left his throat a little sore from all the moaning. Peter’s mattress is so soft and Peter’s skin is so soft and everything is so wonderfully cloud-like.

"You make it sound like it's a requirement for me to sleep with my coworkers," Peter says. His hand is very warm where it’s touching between Stiles’ shoulder blades.

"Come on, just answer."

"Hmm." Peter runs his fingers up Stiles' neck, squeezing the nape. His eyes squint together as he thinks about it. "There’s something about Danny.”

“Yeah. Can’t blame you there,” Stiles says. “I think I’d go for Jordan.”

“Jordan?”

“Yeah. You know, the guy from security? Nice eyes?”

Peter frowns. “Nice eyes? Should I be jealous?”

Stiles thinks about what Peter said earlier, the _I don’t want anyone else to see you like this_ comment, and wonders if he meant it. Probably not. It was probably just one of those heat-of-the-moment things. Best not to harp on it.

“Maybe,” Stiles says, then pinches his chest. “Especially since you do such a shit job of satisfying me sexually.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yeah. I’ve been keeping it mum, but you’re pretty much terrible in bed.”

“So, Jordan, hm?” Peter says. “Not Scott?”

“ _What_? No. Dear god, no.” Stiles grimaces. “What gave you that idea?”

Peter shrugs. “Just asking. You too seem very chummy.”

“Yeah, that’s cause we’re friends,” Stiles says. “You don’t have those, do you?”

“I have some. I have a nephew I’m close to.”

“A nephew?”

“Yes, my nephew Derek.”

Stiles chuckles, and at Peter’s questioning noise, Stiles says, “Just weird to picture you… hanging out with family.” 

“That’s because you can’t picture me anything but naked in bed with you,” Peter says, and okay, fine, maybe that’s true on some level. Especially considering that that’s exactly what’s happening right now, and it is pretty attention-hogging. Stiles gives in to that distraction, quickly running his hand over Peter’s bare chest. He has the perfect amount of chest hair, and Stiles didn’t even know that that existed.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “You ever done this before?”

"Have sex? Yes. Yes, Stiles, I have."

Stiles digs his knuckles into his arm. "I meant with a coworker. Something like this." He gestures between the two of them. "Do you hop from job to job seducing as many colleagues as you can or what?"

"Hmm. Yes.”

“You asshole. Be serious.”

“Yes, I have,” Peter says. His hand slides downwards over Stiles’ hip, stroking it, almost like he thinks it hurts Stiles to hear that he’s been in relationships before. For the record, Stiles doesn’t care. He has his own list of exes that certainly don’t make him a Virgin Mary here. “A copy boy from my last job caught my eye.”

“Oh ho ho. A copy boy?”

“It was fairly short-lived. It wasn't exactly a relationship.”

_Wasn't exactly a relationship_ like what he and Stiles have going now or _wasn't exactly a relationship_ like a quick one night stand after winking at each other in the halls now and then?

Stiles refuses to ask.

“Sounds racy,” is what he says instead.

“It was all right,” Peter says, and he does sound vaguely bored, which somehow makes Stiles slightly more satisfied than he was a minute ago. He can't imagine Peter ever sounding bored when talking about his sex life with Stiles. Stiles is fucking crazy in bed. “I suppose you haven't.”

“Haven't what?”

“Fooled around with a coworker.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your hurry to defend yourself when you mentioned crushing on that redhead in the cafeteria gave me a clue,” Peter says. “And your unrelenting need to keep letting me know that inter-office relationships are forbidden.”

“You make me sound like a killjoy,” Stiles says, frowning. “I'm really not—it's not like I have a stick up my ass.”

“I didn't say that,” Peter says, and then his hand squeezes said ass. “And I should know.”

“I meant with the rule breaking. I've lost count of how many times I've gotten away with shit because my dad’s a cop.” He readjusts on the bed, looking at Peter through the shadows. “I'm just trying to be… I don't know, semi-careful about this job. I'm good at it. And my friends are there. And I like it, and I know not too many people can say that about their job.”

“That's true,” Peter says. He leans in closer, carding a hand through Stiles’ hair, his fingers gentle. “And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“Tangled naked in bed with your boss.”

“Yeah, and—hey.” Stiles frowns. “You're not my boss. Stop trying to sneak that by me.”

Peter grins. Stiles covers it up with his mouth, kissing his smugness away.

\--

It's hard keeping a secret from his best friends. Not only just because they typically figure it out long before Stiles is ready to share that information, but also because he genuinely likes keeping his buds updated on his life and then being able to discuss it and any new developments with them as they come. As far as new developments go, sleeping with Peter is pretty damn big, and still, Stiles knows that keeping mum is essential to keeping this contained and secure where it is. Relationships are always so good before people's opinions and work violations and nosy friends get in the way.

Not that this is a real, honest to goodness relationship. But the problems that come with one still relate.

Still. It's rough. Isaac is already snoopy enough as it is and Scott can read Stiles like a book, and even Stiles can see for himself that when he looks in the mirror lately, he's aswim in the glow of an erotically satisfied man. Not to mention how glaringly obvious it is that he's hiding something when Isaac makes another—much overdone—joke about Stiles needing to "bone the finance dude already, sheesh" and Stiles spins into a helpless, dumb tornado of overreacting and unnecessary drama. He needs to keep this cool, but it's difficult because so much fucking stuff is riding on Stiles being able to keep this quiet. 

And it's not even that he even remotely thinks that one of his pals would rat him out to Finstock. More that he knows that he wouldn't get out alive of the ensuing jokes, grilling, and questions thrown his way the second the cat slips out of the bag. And besides, this thing with him and Peter isn't even important. Hardly worth a mention. Just another regular, boring, everyday, garden variety office romance situation. That's that.

"I talked to Peter today," Isaac says over lunch five minutes after Stiles sits down with his food. "You?"

"Yes, I also talked to Peter today," Stiles says. Things like _oh god, I'll come way too fast if you do that_ and _holy hot dog, right there, keep going_ , but he's keeping that to himself. "I gave him some papers. He said thanks. I said you're welcome." He stuffs some salsa in his mouth, the kind just spicy enough to explain away his red cheeks if anybody asks. "Saucy, right?"

Isaac drops his fork, annoyed. "Can you please just fuck him already?"

"No!" Stiles yells, way too loudly, and then seven more times in case it hasn't sunk in. "No! No. _No._ No, no, no. No! I don't need to fuck him. I'm doing just fine."

"Yeah? You met someone?"

"Lets just say I get mine," Stiles says, dodging the bullet that includes him making up a one-night-stand, creating a Facebook page for him, and orchestrating fake text message conversations to sell the lie. "I don't need Peter to do that."

His phone vibrates in his pocket. Stiles slips it out, and finds that Peter's messaged him.

**Peter @ 11:55am:** _You, me, and those briefs you like tonight? What say you?_

"Just a shame to see all that pent-up sexual energy go to waste."

"It's not," Stiles assures him. “I have a good hand. Strong hand.”

“Ugh.”

“I’m a grown boy. I can take care of my own sexual needs.” Which is the truth, but it also doesn’t hurt to have a hot, able-bodied, talented man helping him out with that. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

“I say we go to a club tonight,” Isaac suggests. “Bar hop until we find Stiles an eligible suitor.”

“Eligible suitor?”

“Yeah, we should,” Scott agrees. “We should go to that one place uptown with the rooftop bar. Stiles, you got lucky the last time we went there, didn't you?”

Lucky is a bit of a generous word—a half-drunken man paid for Stiles’ drinks and they ended up sharing unremarkable handjobs in the club bathroom after twenty minutes of talking about soccer. Cristiano Ronaldo came up, which put Stiles in the mood, and neither of their pants went down any further than their knees once they made it to the restroom stall. The stuff of wet dreams.

“I don't know,” Stiles says. “Why don't we just hang out at my place?”

“Why do you have the sex drive of a ninety-year-old coma patient all of a sudden?” Isaac demands. “We're going.”

Stiles sighs. He slips his phone back out again to text Peter back.

**Stiles @ 12:02pm:** _Wish I could. Guys are taking me out. Rain check._

**Peter @ 12:03pm:** _Your loss._

Stiles hates that he's probably right, because Peter really _does_ look damn good in those briefs. He can't believe that he's about to miss out on sex in an effort to prove he's not lost in a rut of abstinence.

He sighs. “I feel like I'm being bullied into a one night stand.”

“Get over it,” Isaac says. “We're not going home tonight until you get off.”

Dear god, this night is going to be long.

\--

Stiles has to admit it, he can't fault his friends for trying. It's his own fault that they don't know that he's perfectly, almost overwhelmingly sexually satisfied on a daily basis; from the outside perspective, he probably seems lonely and sexless and encroaching hermit status. It's not their fault that he gave up a night pulling Peter's briefs off with his teeth to be standing in a sweaty, noisy club surrounded by strangers.

The place is kind of stinky. It's trendy enough as far as clubs go—loud dance music, strobe lights, warehouse-inspired ceilings—but it's also crawling with the desperation of more than a hundred single people all grinding to a Justin Bieber song. Stiles absolutely refuses to grind to a Justin Bieber song. Refuses.

“See any tasty dishes you want to sample out there?” Isaac asks him as he brings drinks over to him.

“What is this, an ice cream bar?”

“It could be,” Isaac says. “Why the fuck are you still standing over here talking me?”

“You guys are assholes,” Stiles says, just for the record, and downs the shot Isaac brought over to him. No reason he can't have fun tonight, that much is certainly true. “I'm scoping out the room, okay?”

That plan is short-lived. Scott shows up a moment later with a man in tow that looks like he spends his every waking minute doing crunches. Scott beckons the guy closer.

“Stiles, meet Ethan,” he says. “I was just telling him that I had a friend he'd hit it off with.”

“And who is that friend, exactly?” Stiles asks.

“Hilarious,” Scott says.

“You wanna dance?” Ethan offers, and Stiles shrugs.

So they dance for a song or two. Stiles herds him out into the throng of clubgoers so his friends and their beady eyes can't observe the whole thing like people at the zoo, and Ethan has pretty good rhythm and is probably a fair bit out of Stiles’ league to say the least. It's fine. It's not knocking Stiles’ pants off him or anything, but it's okay.

Then at one point Ethan ducks in a bit closer and puts his hand on Stiles’ waist and his hand feels all wrong—clumsy and callused and weirdly cool—and Stiles has to lean in and ask if he wants to head to the bar just to keep this from morphing into a dirty dancing session Stiles inadvertently encouraged. Ethan nods. It's a little weird, because Stiles would totally have gone for a beefcake like Ethan a year or so ago, but he's not doing squat for him now. He's not even quite sure what changed.

They head to the bar, Stiles pulling him over to the empty spot far away from where Isaac and Scott are sitting and still watching with everything but binoculars to help the process along, and Ethan orders two beers without asking what Stiles wants to drink.

Dick move, Stiles thinks, and then immediately thinks to another person who would do that very exact thing who Stiles would probably pardon for that. Dickhood is in the eye of the beholder, perhaps.

As if summoned by pure thought of him, Stiles’ phone buzzes in his pocket, and when he slips it out to take a look, a text from Peter flashes up at him.

**Peter @ 9:02pm:** _How’s it going?_

Ethan is drumming his fingers on the counter, clearly watching Stiles show priority to his phone, but Stiles texts back anyway. Hey, maybe Stiles is kind of a dick too.

**Stiles @ 9:03pm:** _Not bad. I'm currently being hit on by a hot guy._

**Peter @ 9:03pm:** _Is that so?_

**Stiles @ 9:04pm:** _Yup. You've got competition._

“Something wrong?” Ethan asks.

Stiles looks up from his phone. “Oh, no.”

Ethan smirks. “Somebody awaiting you?”

Stiles shrugs, a funny tickle circling his stomach. “Maybe,” he says. “You can keep a secret, can't you?”

Ethan looks like he definitely wasn't expecting that answer, but is curious anyway. “Sure.”

Stiles leans in to whisper. “My friends brought me because they think I'm sexually deprived,” he divulges. “But I'm not. Not even close.”

“...what?”

“I have a—” Stiles stops himself. Best not to throw labels around willy-nilly. “I'm doing this friends-with-benefits thing my friends don't know about.”

Ethan seems perplexed. “Then what are you doing here?”

“I can't tell my friends about it,” Stiles says. “See, me and him work together, and my friends work there too, and if they found out the ribbing would be never-ending. Oh, and it's technically against the rules, so.” Stiles sucks his cheeks into his mouth. Maybe he should stop talking before he accidentally gives out Finstock’s phone number too and this guy ends up tattle-taling. “Anyway,” he says loudly, and prays the music drowned out those first few bits.

“What?”

Ethan doesn't seem too enthused about Stiles’ little oversharing. He's looking at him like Stiles doesn't belong here, like he's taking up valuable space that an interested single man could be using, and Stiles agrees, he absolutely agrees. His heart isn't in this evening, not the overly sweet drinks, not the remixed dubstep music, not the strong smell of too much Axe deodorant.

“Hey,” he says, snapping his fingers as he comes up with an idea. “You wouldn't pretend to take me home so I could get my friends off my back and get out of here, would you?”

“No,” Ethan says, making a face, and leaves.

Okay, that was a long shot anyway and Stiles is going to blame himself for that one. That probably could've been more smoothly handled, and there probably could been less talking about Peter and less wasting of that stranger’s time. He’s one hundred percent certain he’s not doing this club experience right. He knows that he’s allowed to do this, that it’s not like he has a ball and chain situation at home, but it also feels a little pointless to waste time flirting with random guys when he could get exactly what he wants without all this extra work. Fact is, Peter’s in his apartment right now strutting around in super flattering briefs and so why the fuck is Stiles here trying to sweet talk people Scott and Isaac are trying to matchmake him with?

For one crazy second, Stiles imagines Peter being in the same situation, sitting at home right now getting coy over a bottle of wine with some washboard abs, and feels a weird, uncomfortable tightness in his stomach.

Scott shows up a minute later. “Hey,” he says. “How’d it go?”

“Guy’s a dick,” Stiles says. “Maybe matchmaking isn’t your strong suit, bud.”

“What?” Scott says. “Let me find you someone better.”

Stiles grabs Scott's forearm before Scott can line up an entire harem of potential suitors for Stiles to pick through. How is this reality? Where was this wingman enthusiasm when Stiles was hopelessly single?

“It's okay,” he says. “I'm not that bad at wrangling sausage myself, you know.” He gives Scott an exaggerated wink and hopes that using the word sausage will gross Scott out enough that he’ll leave the situation in Stiles’ hands. “Not that I don't appreciate the enthusiasm.”

There is a brief nose wrinkle on Scott's end. “You sure?” he asks. “We just want you to have a good time, you know. This isn't supposed to be Torture Dating 101 or anything.”

Sounds like a show that would do well on TLC, Stiles thinks off-handedly.

“I'm really doing fine on my own,” Stiles insists.

“Really? You've just—I don't know. Maybe it's none of our business, but it's like you've been in a slump ever since the whole Peter thing didn't work out.”

Oh, it's been working out. Stiles rolls his tongue deep into his mouth where it can never betray him and accidentally let out secrets.

“We just want you to have a good time,” Scott says.

Stiles sighs. He hates that his friends are so considerate. He also hates how easily they can bully him into misguided matchmaking schemes, but even that comes out of a place of consideration.

Fuck. He wants to tell them. He wants to just blurt it out already and admit that he's very sexually entangled with Peter and having the time of his life while he's at it, but if he would, there'd be so fucking much to explain. What they're doing. What they mean to each other. Where all this is going. They wouldn't understand. Stiles just can't imagine that they'd get that it's all much simpler than it looks, that there aren't any labels at work here, that they're just having some harmless naked fun.

He looks at Scott, earnest eyes flashing blue, purple, green, yellow, orange under the dance floor lights. He almost lets it out. Almost.

“I'm having a great time, Scotty,” he says. “Don't worry about it.”

“Hey,” Isaac says, squeezing through two chiseled backsides and appearing next to Scott. “I found a hot guy who's totally up your alley. Go talk to him.”

Stiles feels himself deflate a little bit. This entire place is stocked with unattached, hot guys up Stiles’ alley. If they're going to be working through each and every one, they're going to be here a while.

Possibly all night.

Stiles sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Bring him to me.”

\--

Stiles doesn't get home (correction: become freed from Scott and Isaac’s determined, aggressive matchmaking) until well after three a.m. He's tired, he's sleepy, and he didn't even make it out of there with anybody's numbers written on his arms. Consistently whispering to people that he was in a sex-only thing with his colleague might have been the reason for that, though.

He kicks his shoes aside, his bed calling his name as he flicks the lights on in his bedroom. His phone is heavy in his jeans pocket, inspiring him with a weird urge to call Peter. It’s late, and he’s probably asleep, but Stiles feels like talking to him. He thumbs his way over to Peter's contact, and seized by impulse, presses call.

A few rings pass, and Stiles is already half-ready to leave a weird, slightly tipsy voicemail for him, but Peter answers before he can implement that option.

“Hey, Stiles,” he says.

“Hey,” Stiles says after Peter picks up. “Is it too late to call?”

“Not at all,” Peter says. He doesn’t sound freshly awoken at all, and it makes a part of Stiles wonder what Peter’s been doing up so late. Hopefully washboard abs aren't the reason. “So how was your night out?”

“Long,” Stiles says, tugging his socks off. “Really long. And a little sweaty for my liking. How about yours?”

“Mm, it was lovely,” Peter says, his voice a slow drawl that lets Stiles know exactly what he did while Stiles was out dodging his friends’ attempts at being r-rated cupid. “How did it go with your admirer?”

“Fine,” Stiles says. He pauses as he unzips his jacket. Should he tell Peter that nothing happened and that he spent most of the night fantasizing about hanging out naked with Peter instead, or is that too much? Probably too much. “My friends are merciless.”

“Their matchmaking didn't work out?”

“Not quite.”

“You want to tell them?”

“About you and me?” Stiles asks. “God no.” It would save him from nights like this in the future, but the pros just don't outweigh the cons. “I can handle them pushing sexy men on me to try and get me laid.”

“Sounds like a real hardship.”

Stiles kicks off his pants and promptly flops down on his bed, stretching his legs out. The soft mattress feels unbelievably nice after such a lengthy night out, but the back of his mind can't help but remind him that Peter's is softer. “You're not getting jealous, are you?”

“Why would I?” Peter asks. “I highly doubt you'd be on the phone with me right now if you're currently busy getting laid.”

“Maybe I'm just in his bathroom.”

“Are you?”

Stiles shifts his knees around. “No.”

“Mmhm.”

“Say,” Stiles says, sneaking a glance at the clock on his nightstand. “Has that offer of you wearing those briefs I like for me expired yet?”

“Oh, Stiles. I took those off hours ago,” Peter says. “I've been in the nude ever since.”

Stiles swallows. “You want to tell me about that?”

“Hmm,” Peter says, like he's carefully considering it. “I don't think you've earned it.”

“I haven't—oh, come on.”

“I'm afraid you lost your privileges when you chose grinding up against sweaty dicks over sucking me off.”

“There wasn't any grinding against sweaty dicks, just for the record.”

“Seems unlikely.”

Stiles chuckles. He stretches an arm over his head, feeling more tired than he thought he would be, although he supposes fending off a dozen handpicked suitors might do that to someone’s energy. It’s not that none of those guys were interesting, it’s just—maybe it’s just a little hard to concentrate when Stiles has the image of Peter in those special briefs in his head.

“I missed you tonight,” Stiles admits, and holy shit, where the fuck did that come from? _What?_ Instantly, that pleasant sleepiness slides off of him like someone’s used a pressure washer. “Um. Never mind. That was—I’m just a little drunk.”

“You sound perfectly sober.”

“Well, I’m trashed. Completely wasted.”

“Of course,” Peter says, and it sounds like he's smirking. Stiles hates that he can picture his expression so clearly. “How about we reschedule tonight's plans for tomorrow evening?”

“I'd like that,” Stiles says. “So you’re sure you don’t want to come over now and get freaky?”

“Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles snickers, then hangs up. It takes him a while to get to sleep, even being as tired as he is, and he’s not sure why.

\--

Stiles fully intends to make up for what he missed out on while he was dragooned into wasting time at a sweaty club. One evening later, he invites Peter over and makes a genuine effort to put a sexy meal together and even lights a candle that nearly sets the curtains ablaze and puts himself in a deliberately low-cut shirt—all clear-cut signs than he's ready to reap what he had been cruelly kept from sowing yesterday. He also puts his phone on silent and makes a personal promise to himself to avoid any and all incoming calls or texts from his friends trying to set him up with potential one-night-stands, so there really shouldn't be any reason why tonight doesn't end in hot, filthy, well done marathon sex.

He makes these intentions clear by flattening Peter against the door the second he steps inside Stiles’ apartment, trapping him in a long, dirty kiss before squeezing his ass cheeks, the same ones Stiles has been watching, nicely hugged by those snug trousers Peter likes, walking around the office all damn day. And also maybe daydreaming about last night at the club.

“Hi,” Stiles breathes on his lips.

“Hi,” Peter says in response, sounding a little windswept by Stiles’ ferociousness. “Did you take a viagra?”

“No need,” Stiles says, nipping at his bottom lip in between words. “I'm all revved up.” He reaches for Peter's shirt, untucking it. “You have any idea how amazing you look in these pants?”

“I do,” Peter says.

“You really do,” Stiles agrees. Any other time, he would shove a humble pie in Peter's face, but he's a man on a mission here and truth be told, Peter really does look _unfairly_ good in these pants. “I made spaghetti,” he says. “Sexiest food on the planet, right next to oysters.”

Peter's hands curl idly over Stiles’ hips: “That's a myth,” he says. “You'd have to eat an astronomical amount of oysters to ingest enough zinc to actually alter your hormone levels.” His hands keep moving, settling carefully on the small of Stiles’ back. “What exactly makes spaghetti so sexy?”

“Duh, the slurping,” Stiles says. He kisses the side of Peter's neck, tugging his shirt aside to get closer to his chest. He smells incredible, like that aftershave that Stiles likes and by now fully associates with Peter's skin, Peter's body, Peter’s stubbled neck. “Anyway. We could eat now, or later, if you catch my drift.”

“You're being fairly obvious about it,” Peter says, but it sounds like he's smiling. “Let’s eat later.”

“Splendid choice,” Stiles says, and pushes their mouths back together.

He also pushes them toward the couch, all but shoving Peter on top of it and following suit by straddling Peter's legs, all the while doing his best to keep their lips locked. Peter makes a few noises here and there—mostly slight surprise proceeded by pleased murmurs—and Stiles swallows them all, winding his arms around Peter's neck. He's been robbed of this for too long, first last night with the unnecessary evening of bachelorhood, and then today with all those unfairly long meetings that wouldn't stop dragging on when all Stiles really wanted was to pull Peter into a janitor’s closet and make out with him. He needs his fucking fix.

They kiss for a bit, the pace almost hurried, almost urgently filthy. Peter's tongue always knows what it's doing, curling against Stiles’, running over his lower lip, working Stiles into a putty. He doesn't waste any time matching Stiles’ level of determination as far as having sex goes, because it certainly doesn't take very long for Peter's hands to find Stiles’ ass and squeeze, knead, rub, gently pull apart the cheeks. Stiles is fucking _thrilled_.

He shows as much by pushing his hips downward, grinding into Peter's crotch, squeezing his knees against Peter's thighs. “God, I want you,” he says, pushing his hands up Peter's t-shirt.

“Why,” Peter says, head tilted over to the right and eyes fixated elsewhere as Stiles goes to kiss his neck, “do you have a jar labeled Grocery Fund?”

Stiles looks briefly over his shoulder at the mason jar in question sitting on his kitchen counter. “Oh yeah. Think of it like a modern day adult piggy bank.”

A derisive little snort leaves Peter's well-kissed mouth. “You do realize the words ‘adult’ and ‘piggy bank’ really don't work together, yes?”

Stiles laughs, too turned on to be fazed by Peter's ridicule. “It works for me,” he says, going back to sucking almost-hickeys on Peter's collarbone.

“Is this seriously how you pay for food?” Peter asks, apparently not done yet. “Where are the jars for rent and utilities and gas?”

“So I'm not the most organized,” Stiles admits. “I've never even balanced a checkbook and my rent is late _a lot_ , so sue me.”

He cups Peter's jaw and kisses him. Peter's contributing effort to their making out is distracted at best.

“You're a mess,” Peter says into his mouth.

Is that really important right now? Stiles pulls back but doesn't give up quite yet, rolling his hips downward in a steady rhythm to drag Peter's attention back to the matter at hand. He also pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it aside, just in case that makes a difference.

“What exactly do you want to do, analyze my finances?” he asks, squeezing the nape of Peter’s neck. “Come on, we’re a little occupied here.”

“Yes,” Peter says. “I would love that.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I wasn't,” Peter says, and suddenly his hands are grabbing Stiles’ hipbones, stilling him. That erotic light in his eyes has been replaced by a finance-fueled hunger. “Bring me your most recent bills.”

\--

So the sexy evening spirals out of control a little bit, or at least loses focus if nothing else. Stiles spends the next twenty minutes rooting around, shirtless, in an unorganized cardboard box he occasionally updates with copies of bills and bank statements looking for the paperwork Peter demands, which somehow turns into Peter spreading out all these papers on Stiles’ coffee table and mapping out his financial shortcomings.

Stiles has to admit, it's not exactly unproductive. And it is free financial advice. It's just not what he had in mind for tonight.

“Are we still going to have sex?” Stiles asks right around eleven p.m., handing Peter a mug of tea. He's since changed into his pajamas (his sex pajamas, though, because he's still holding out some hope) and has turned on the TV to entertain himself. “Or have we become those people that lose their spark and never touch each other again?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Peter says, taking the mug. “Earl gray?”

“Obviously,” Stiles says. How could he forget; Peter brought the tea box to his apartment weeks ago and left it in his pantry for warm post-coital refreshment. Stiles sits down on the sofa’s armrest, taking in the sea of papers spread out in his living room.“What are the findings?”

“Your spending habits are absurd,” Peter tells him, holding a credit card statement up as proof. “Why is a man your age still spending so much money at comic book stores?”

“Comics have no age limit,” Stiles insists. “Next.”

“All right, why is a man your age splurging at a bounce house rental facility?”

“It was Scott’s birthday,” Stiles says, and when that apparently isn’t explanation enough, Peter’s blank eyes clearly requesting more information, he adds, “Every birthday needs a moonbounce.”

“Obviously.”

“Don't knock it till you try it,” Stiles tells him. He checks the clock again. “Should I just go ahead and put on my boring pajamas now or later?”

Peter looks up from the papers in his hands for a second, staring at Stiles’ current outfit over the rim of his glasses. “Are you trying to tell me that what you're wearing now are your... interesting pajamas?”

Stiles looks down. “Sexy pajamas, actually.” He thought that was obvious.

“Hmm,” Peter says, giving him one last critical look over his reading glasses, and then turns back to the papers. Not exactly the appreciation of Stiles’ body or choice in clothes he was looking for.

Boring pajamas it is.

By the time he reemerges, this time in flannel Batman pants, a slightly oversized, washed-out sleep tee with the words _FLIRTY DIRTY AND NERDY_ peeling on the front, and a pair of fuzzy slippers he's usually too embarrassed to let anybody see him in, Peter's moved on to organizing everything in multiple binders. Stiles doesn't even know where all these binders could've come from.

“You really didn't have to do this, you know,” Stiles says, picking up one binder already labeled TAXES and flipping through it. “I feel like I should be paying you to do this.”

“I accept payment in sexual favors,” Peter says, even though he's still very much knee-deep in an avalanche of scattered paperwork right now that seems to have a firm grip on his attention. He looks up for a moment. “Nice slippers.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, and immediately colors. He had been kind of hoping Peter wouldn't notice those. “Hey, you interested in dinner?”

“I am,” Peter says.

“I'll heat up the spaghetti,” he says.

So he slaves over the stove like a housewife whose husband is doing the finances. He turns the stovetop back on and stirs the tomato sauce until it bubbles to warmth again, ladling it on top of the pasta. Stiles even went through the trouble of buying frozen meatballs and defrosting them, and still, no one is lining up to show their appreciation.

“Smells a little burnt,” is what Peter says instead, voice drifting over to the kitchen.

“Shut up,” Stiles says right back. Everything smells fine. Everything will taste fine too. To prove it, he sticks a wooden spoon in the tomato sauce and licks it clean.

Okay, fine, maybe it tastes a little like charred rotten tomatoes. It's… rustic. Like weird camp food.

He serves the spaghetti and the sauce anyway, caking on grated cheese on the top to try and mask that strong taste of tomatoes that were grilled on a very old, very dirty, very sooty grill. Cheese fixes everything, as does a little garnish, so Stiles tears off a bit of basil from that plant Melissa got him when he first moved into this apartment and somehow has still kept alive all these years and adds that to the center of the heap of mozzarella.

“Here we go,” Stiles says as he hands Peter a plate and utensils. “Does this look good or what? I should be on Chopped.”

Peter takes one bite. “No,” he says. “You should not be on Chopped.” He looks down at the plate like one might examine a Petri dish of fungi. “How is it even possible for someone to fuck up something as simple as spaghetti so much?”

“Oh, come on.”

“Do you have something else mildly edible that might work as sustenance?”

“You go find something if I'm so damn bad at it.”

That's when it turns into a real episode of Chopped, because Peter looks through Stiles’ cupboards and pulls out the few pieces of unexpired food sitting in his kitchen and gets to work making a dish with it. Stiles has seen them do this exact thing on Food Network, except for money.

He hates that Peter's so good at it. Good at finances, good at cooking, good with people, good with Stiles. He tells himself this as he watches Peter cook, fiddling with the TV remote to fill the air with something amusing while he works, and twenty minutes later, Peter’s whipped up a peanut butter infused chicken dish that's bizarrely tasty.

“As the in-house sommelier,” Stiles says through a mouthful of chicken. “What wine do you recommend with this meal?”

“My recommendation would matter a lot more if you had anything other than a bottle of two-buck-chuck in your pantry,” Peter says, but he pours the wine for them anyway. It's a good wine, a sweet red with a tiny amount of fizz just like Stiles likes it, but it seems to be much too cheap for Peter's sophisticated palate, as he feels the need to grimace every time he takes a sip.

“You are such a snob,” Stiles says. He touches Peter's leg where he's sitting next to him on the couch, and it throws him back to that night with the really good sex and the Chinese food. Stiles looks around them at the unrelenting mountain of paperwork which doesn't seem to be whittling down just yet, and wonders if good sex is in the forecast for tonight too just like it was that time. “You wanna get down and dirty after this?”

“Let me finish organizing everything first,” Peter says. “Then we can.”

“When do you think you'll be done?”

“Hmm. Thirty minutes?”

He's not done thirty minutes later, though. Stiles busies himself with washing dishes—aka, piling all the plates into the sink and pouring water over them for “soaking purposes”—and pouring himself more wine. This isn't something he ever expected out of Peter, this neurotic, organizationally obsessed side of himself that's somehow taken priority over sex. Stuff like that keeps happening. The longer they hang out, the more Stiles inadvertently finds out about Peter. The more he learns about him outside of what underwear he wears and what his come tastes like and how he sounds when he's reaching orgasm. 

Stiles isn't sure what to do with any of that very real, very PG information.

“This isn't quite what I had in mind for tonight,” Stiles murmurs around his glass of wine after he's stretched himself out comfortably on the other end of the couch. “In my expectations, we were wearing a lot less clothes.”

“Mine too,” Peter says. Stiles is getting tired; listening to Peter shuffle all those papers around is a lulling sound. “At least I'm taking care of your pitiful filing system.”

“The pig is not pitiful,” Stiles insists, letting his eyes close. “Just let me know when you're done and I'll rock your world.”

“Sounds good,” Peter says.

“Mm,” Stiles agrees.

He stretches out a little more, sneaking his feet into Peter's lap and trying to zero in on the noises from the television to keep from falling asleep. It's a Friends rerun he's seen about a million times, and Stiles tries to remember the lines before they're said, tries to focus on anything other than how sleepy he is.

The rocking of Peter's world doesn't end up happening, not tonight. Instead, Stiles falls asleep hanging halfway off the sofa with his unfinished glass of wine still in reach on the coffee table, listening to the sounds of Peter's pen scribbling on papers.

It's a weirdly comfortable atmosphere.

\--

Stiles wakes up a few hours later in the dark from a spine that vehemently wants better treatment than an old lumpy couch underneath it, demanding to be relocated to his bed, and when he looks around at the dim room, one lamp still on by the kitchen and spreading a soft golden light through the apartment, he remembers just what prompted him to fall asleep out here in the first place.

_Peter_. He's long gone now, his shoes missing from where they were by the door, but the proof of his presence is still obvious: the dishes are cleaned out of the sink, there's a blanket draped loosely over Stiles’ thighs, and there's a neat stack of papers, binders, and folders sitting on the coffee table. Stiles rubs his eyes and gets up to take a look.

The topmost folder has been labeled _WATER BILLS_ in black marker in Peter's unmistakable penmanship. The one underneath says _PAY STUBS_ , the one under that reading _RENT PAYMENTS_ , and another _CAR INSURANCE_. There's even a handwritten recommended budget lying on the very bottom, Peter outlining exactly where all of his monthly salary could responsibly go, including a footnote mentioning that zero of these dollars should go toward a moon bounce or any other rented inflatables. On the very top, a yellow post-it sticks out.

_Stiles --_  
Put these somewhere safe. Get rid of that ridiculous pig.  
Have a good night. Thanks for the meatballs.  
\-- Peter 

Stiles looks over at his piggy bank, the one that's now been relocated on top of the trash can lid. Subtle, Stiles thinks, and smiles as he sticks the post-it back on the folder.

He pulls his phone out of his pants, tired eyes squinting through the painfully bright screen as he thumbs his way to his text messages. He taps one out to Peter.

**Stiles @ 3:22am:** _thanks for all the work_

**Stiles @ 3:22am:** _oh and the pig stays_

He shuts it off, heading over to his bedroom and not bothering with the light as he goes. He slides under the sheets, sprawling out in the bed, and kind of wishes Peter had stayed to share it with him.

\--

Stiles vows to give Peter a proper thank you come morning when he gets a chance to look at all the folders in the daylight and can actually see all the organization that went into sorting everything. Peter was nothing if not meticulous, and it does make Stiles feel significantly more Grown Up to have all his financial statements filed away somewhere other than a large cardboard box with no real system or separation. He thinks about this as he looks around at all the things Peter did around his apartment before leaving last night, like rinsing plates and corking the wine bottle and cleaning up all the teabag wrappers, and how Stiles probably owes him something of a reward.

Also, they didn't even get to have sex last night, so there's definitely some catching up to do on that front.

He quickly considers going commando at work as a treat for Peter to uncover, then decides to spare himself the horror of any unforeseen complications that might come with being sans underwear at work (Stiles once pantsed Isaac in the parking lot some two years ago, and Stiles has been awaiting the rebuttal ever since).

He ultimately settles something a little more creative, swinging by a Walgreens before coming into work to print out some photographs that, as far as Finstock is concerned, is not the real reason Stiles is arriving late today.

“Flat tire,” he says on the phone will he huddles around the photo kiosk and waits for the printing to finish. “Be there soon.”

“If you're sitting in a Starbucks, IHOP, or McDonalds right now helping yourself to a long breakfast,” Finstock warns, “you better bring enough for the whole class.”

The machine beeps underneath him and Stiles hurries to shush it, unsuccessfully. He tries to imagine bringing enough of these pictures for everyone on the whole floor and nope, not ever going to happen, nopety nope.

“Just a flat tire,” he lies.

“Just to be clear,” Finstock says. “If you don't want me to clock you in late for this, you'll bring me breakfast. Whether you're there or not.”

“Got it,” Stiles says, and makes the smart decision to stop at Starbucks after he's done here.

\--

In a past life, Stiles thinks, he was a government worker having a passionate, illegal affair with his FBI coworker that he was hiding from his nosy superiors and the spying eyes of the camera-infested walls, and that's why he's so good at this. That's why it feels so damn natural to stuff dirty pictures of himself into a fancy padded envelope he swipes from the office supply room and carry it around the office under his arm like he's delivering top-secret case files to someone.

There's something thrilling about all this. It's like a tingle in his tummy, just like when he and Peter were having sex in the stairwell, just like when Peter first stepped foot into Stiles’ apartment. _Peter_ is thrilling. He owns butt plugs and keeps lube at work but at the same time, he also organizes Stiles’ finance box and draws up personal budgets and dry-cleans his shirt for him. He's multi-dimensional and interesting and keeps Stiles on his toes.

Yes. So he definitely deserves a few racy photographs handed to him in a discreet envelope.

He heads by Peter's office right around nine a.m.—prime time in the morning to get in a few rub’n’tugs before the emails and meetings start pouring in—and knocks a quick rendition of the Star Wars theme against the door. It's a secret handshake of sorts he's been pushing they use that Peter's firmly against, but _whatever._ Stiles is using it.

“Come in,” Peter calls.

Stiles eases the door open. “Hey,” he says.

“Morning,” Peter says as Stiles slinks closer in the sexiest prowl he knows. “Need something?”

"So, uh," Stiles says, slowly handing Peter the envelope. He leans on the edge of his desk, not sure how but still trying his best to bring sex appeal to giving someone documents. The best he's got here is an attempt at bedroom eyes—he really should've practiced those beforehand—and adding a sensual husk to his voice. "Here are those reports you asked for, Mr. Hale."

Peter frowns. "Do you need a cough drop?"

"What?" Stiles drops the husk. "No. I'm just trying to—would you open the damn file already?"

Peter opens it. "This is not the report I wanted."

Stiles grins. "I know."

"This is a risqué picture of you," Peter says, slipping a photograph out. He sounds like he's fighting back a smile, but is so far doing a marvelous job at keeping any signs of one at bay. "You know this is totally forbidden here at work."

"Hmm. Maybe you should... punish me?"

Stiles leans in closer where he's perched as sensually as possible on Peter's desk, tilting his head back a little. He has no fucking clue if he looks tempting like this or just slightly insane, but it does seem like the former wins out, because Peter curls a hand around Stiles' knee and finally lets that smile through.

"All right. Come here."

He pats his lap, which is an invitation Stiles doesn't need to hear twice. He climbs into Peter's chair, straddling his lap, and licks his lips, already eager. Peter’s hands immediately curl around Stiles’ ass, squeezing.

"Have you been bad?" he asks.

"Oh, I've been a very bad boy," Stiles murmurs into his ear, tugging Peter's earlobe between his teeth. "I just used up all the ink on this floor's printer." He bites down just a little. "And I didn't even replace the cartridge."

"Naughty boy, you are," Peter breathes, grabbing Stiles by the jaw to maneuver him close enough to roughly kiss.

"Oh dear _lord_ ," someone says.

Stiles doesn't even have the time to piss his pants, not when his head whips around fast enough to nearly dislocate his spine. There, in the doorway, stands Isaac, looking caught somewhere between mortification and peals of laughter. Stiles feels himself reach _just_ the edge of a nervous breakdown, but pulls himself back in time to actually handle the situation. For starters, he gets the fuck out of Peter's lap.

Peter doesn't seem to share Stiles' horror. If anything, he seems extremely annoyed, letting out an irritated huff through his nostrils. "Don't you know how to knock?" he seethes.

"Oh, would you like me to let you get back to what you were doing?" Isaac offers, and by now any remnants of mortification have completely morphed into true amusement, a shit-eating grin on his face. Oh, Stiles is already regretting not biting the bullet and telling him about this earlier. Before, you know. Being caught dirty talking on Peter's lap in the middle of the workday with nude pictures of himself fanned out on Peter's desk. "This is _priceless_."

"Get out," Peter says through his teeth. "And close the door behind you."

" _Priceless_ ," Isaac says again, and then points at Stiles. "We're going to fucking destroy you for this over drinks tonight."

He closes the door, his laughter easily heard through it and taking any last shreds of Stiles' erection and withering it away. For the love of god, they _need_ to get more consistent about the door locking.

"Oh my god," Stiles says under his breath, sliding his hands over his face to wallow in his own little personal hell for a second. "Are we seriously this stupid?"

"Relax, he won’t tell anyone," Peter says, still sounding a little irritated, but clearly not nearly as humiliated as Stiles. He leans back in his chair, the backrest creaking, and pats his thighs again. "Come on. Lock the door and come back here."

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“He’s gone. I highly doubt he’ll come back.”

“You’re serious?” Stiles says. “He could be telling the entire office.” He rubs his eyes. “Okay, fine, maybe not the whole office, but he’s definitely telling Scott.”

“And that’s so terrible?”

“They’re going to fucking _roast_ me.” Stiles scrubs his hands over his forehead. “They've been dragging me to bars trying to find me hook-ups because they thought I was in the worst dry spell of my life and when they find out I was sleeping you with the whole time—Jesus fucking Christ, we need to learn to _lock doors_.”

Peter's hand comes out of nowhere to yank Stiles into his lap again. Stiles goes down flailing, annoyed and stressed and mind going too damn fast right now for this.

“ _Shhh_ ,” Peter demands, hand firm where it slides over Stiles’ mouth to quiet him. “Calm down.”

“ _You_ calm down,” Stiles says childishly, uselessly, against Peter's muzzle of a palm. 

“You're not ashamed of me, are you, Stiles?” Peter asks, thumb stroking his chin.

Stiles nods, then pulls Peter's hand off his mouth by the wrist. “You bet your ass I am.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous. I'm very charming.”

Yes, charming to the point of lethal, because he's somehow convinced Stiles that getting freaky at work is a good idea, something he should be striving for. He's even bringing him filthy explicit pictures at work. And dirty talking him at nine a.m. When did Stiles lose all these brain cells?

Stiles’ phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, dreading what he's about to see.

**Scott @ 9:31am:** _I seriously had to find out through Isaac??? Are you kidding me??????_

**Scott @ 9:31am:** _THE WHOLE STORY, TONIGHT, AT THE BAR_

“Fuck,” Stiles says, with feeling.

\--

By the time Stiles walks into the bar after work that evening, that shit-eating grin on Isaac's face has infectiously spread to Scott's. Stiles briefly considers walking right back out.

"Dear god. I don't even want to walk over to you guys right now," Stiles groans.

"Come over here," Isaac demands. "You're not getting off the hook."

Stiles, reluctantly at best, meanders over to the bar and to the stool Scott and Isaac are patting in invitation between them. The Spanish Inquisition probably was never as brutal as this is about to be, Stiles is sure of it.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us," Scott says automatically. "Your best friends—"

"Yeah, my _best friends_ who would've mocked me mercilessly if they knew that I was sleeping with the finance guy."

"We're _hurt_."

"C'mon, it's not a big deal," Stiles says, trying to get the attention of the bartender as he sits down. He needs alcohol. He needed alcohol before he even came here. "We're just having sex, not anything more."

“Yeah, and having sneaky sex rendezvous in his office during work hours,” Isaac adds in, really, _really_ unnecessarily. He digs his elbow into Stiles’ side. “We all knew you were gone for him. We knew _months_ ago.” He grins, the kind of grin that Stiles would love to throw a drink onto. “Do you _luuuurve_ him?”

“I need new friends.”

“Oh, you _so_ do love him.”

“Hey, no! No, I don’t, so don’t even joke about that,” Stiles says, feeling uncomfortably hot. “It’s just sex.”

“If you say so.”

“I _do_ say so,” Stiles says. God, how warm is this bar? Can they turn the heat down a little? “Can we change the subject now, please?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Isaac says. “We’re not done with you. When did this start? Your little sexcation to San Francisco?”

“No! No,” Stiles says. Since that damn bartender doesn’t seem to be acknowledging his existence, Stiles grabs Isaac’s beer and downs a few gulps. “Recently. Like a week ago.”

“And how’d it happen?” Isaac digs his knuckle into Stiles’ side. “Pop a boner in front of him, did you?”

“Okay, I think you’ve talked enough for tonight,” Stiles says, wrapping his hands around Isaac’s glass just to make sure he won’t be getting his beer back anytime soon. That’s his now. “We just—I don’t know. We were fighting in his office and that somehow turned into making out.”

“I just still can’t believe you’ve been hiding this from us for weeks,” Scott says. “For entire weeks. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“Because it’s not a big deal. I cannot stress enough how not a big deal it is,” Stiles says. It’s crucial they understand that part. Nobody’s sending out wedding invitations or changing their Facebook relationship status here. “We’re just two people having sex.”

“Anybody can give you sex,” Isaac points out. “Seems like a lot of trouble to choose someone who you could get fired for sleeping with. Seems like you’d only go through this kind of trouble if you had feelings for someone.”

“Don’t go there,” Stiles warns him. He goes for another long glug of beer, which he had hoped would cool him down, but is really doing the opposite. “We’re being careful. We’re not going to get caught.”

“Right. Which is why I walked in on you guys today. Easily.”

“So we forgot to lock a door, okay?” Stiles says, refusing to mention that this has happened before. “Lesson learned.”

“I’m just saying, it’s obvious you have a crush on him. I’ve been saying it since day one,” Isaac says. He turns to Scott. “Back me up here.”

“He has,” Scott agrees.

“Oh my god, stop saying the word _crush_. For god’s sake, we’re not in elementary school. Literally all that’s happening here is adult sex. Very grown-up sex.” Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we wrap up the Q &A portion of the evening already?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Just one more question,” Isaac says. “How long until you stop lying to yourself about this? Is it a full blown existential crisis or will you realize it all in about a day?”

“You're an idiot,” Stiles says, helping himself to a few more gulps from Isaac’s glass before handing it back.

Isaac couldn't be more wrong about this. Seriously, Stiles has it all under control.


	4. Chapter 4

"Okay, okay. Check this out."

Stiles twists around where he's sitting cross-legged on Peter's desk on a stack of filing folders, grabbing his phone and punching in the extension for Jackson's desk. He looks over at Peter, winks, and waits for the ringing to be cut off.

"Jackson Whittemore speaking," Jackson says three rings later in what is most definitely his Customer Service Voice, one Stiles has never had directed at him before.

"Hey, Jackson, this is Jordan down from security," Stiles says, doing his best to match the deeper register of Parrish's voice. "Just wanted to let you know that we're getting footage from the parking lot right now of what seems to be someone keying your car."

" _What?_ " Jackson yells, and there goes the pleasant Customer Service Voice. "Are you shitting me right now?"

"You might want to check it out," Stiles says, already poised to hang up. "And watch that potty mouth while you're at it, young man."

He slams the receiver back down and cackles, feeling thirteen again and remarkably vindicated, which probably says something about his maturity. He turns to Peter, grinning, and throws his hand out for a high five.

"Did that make your week or did that make your week?"

"So did you actually key his car?" Peter asks.

"Uh—no. I stopped short of real vandalism."

Peter shrugs. "Then as far as I'm concerned, this prank is only half done."

"Remind me to never piss you off," Stiles says, then realizes that that's bound to happen once or twice or sixteen times with a relationship as volatile as theirs, and revises his mental note. "No, remind me to invest in better insurance." Stiles leans across the desk again, reaching for the receiver. "Who should we call next?"

Peter's hand on his knee stops him. "I actually have to return to work," he says.

"Whaaaaat?"

"Yes, as much fun as this exercise in immaturity is, I have budget reports due in one hour."

Stiles beams. "You haven't done them yet?" He leans a little closer to him, putting his elbows on his legs. "You wouldn't be learning from yours truly and slacking off, now would you?"

"Let's just say I've been distracted," Peter says, and the way he draws out his words all sexy and sticky-like makes Stiles think he's in the mood for yet more distractions.

Just in case, Stiles decides to dangle some bait for the hell of it and eases open the first few buttons of his shirt.

"Distracted, huh?" he says. "Does this distraction have a name?"

Peter's lips thin, clearly trying to hold together the waves of unbridled passion Stiles' bedroom eyes are bringing out in him. Stiles reaches for the collar of Peter's shirt, fiddling with the fabric with his thumbs.

"Possibly," Peter says.

"Aha."

Stiles doesn't need more of an invite, sliding his hands over Peter's shoulders and leaning in for the kiss. The hard desk under his ass and the extreme curve his spine is arching under isn't making this the comfiest make out session they've ever had, but all it would take is Stiles climbing into that big, plush desk chair on top of Peter's lap and—

"Stiles," Peter says against Stiles' lips. "I'm afraid we really will have to stick a bookmark in this."

Stiles groans, pulling away. Seriously, one of the major downs to sleeping with your coworker is still being expected to do work on time when there are so many other things you could be doing while at work. Like raunchy emails. Or pornographic doodles slipped under the door. Or just straight up sex.

"Okay, fine," Stiles says, conceding. "How about one more prank call before I go?"

He reaches for the phone only for Peter to squeeze his knee again to grab his attention.

"What?"

"You wanna go to the movies?" Peter says.

"What, now?" Stiles asks. "You have time for that but not a quickie?"

"Tonight. The movies tonight. After business hours."

"Ah." There's a weird feeling in Stiles' stomach as he considers the idea, one that almost feels like a porcupine trying to build a nest inside his ribcage. _The movies_ sound an awful lot like a date.

Then again, it is Peter, and Peter isn't exactly the type to hold hands in the popcorn bowl and then make out halfway through the movie. Well, maybe the make out bit is true, but Stiles doesn't mind that part.

"What do you think?"

"Sure," Stiles says slowly. "But only if you’re putting out.”

Peter smiles. “You think I’m that kind of man?”

“I think you’re exactly that kind of man. And then some.”

Peter’s smile widens. He leans in and kisses Stiles’ temple, which feels—Stiles doesn’t even know. Oddly G-rated. Oddly safe for work. What the hell was that? “See you tonight, yes?”

Stiles feels like he should check if this is a date. Make sure that it isn't. Guarantee that this is just a sexy escapade and not anything more meaningful, but how does he ask that without coming off like a loon? Or without Peter immediately accusing him of overthinking, or being a little too self-assured, or prying open a can of worms? Stiles doesn't want to mess with the worms, he just wants to go to the movies without there being any underlying message.

"Okay? Great," Stiles says, because he can't think of one single tactful way to get to the bottom of what he needs to know. Ask if he can wear sweatpants? Stiles is almost positive that sweatpants and actual dates don't mix. "Sounds great."

"I'll pick you up at seven," Peter says. 

“Sure,” Stiles says, and in a ridiculous attempt to make it clear that everything they do is still shrouded in sex, not romance and dates at the movies and rose petals, he gets up from the desk and makes a grab for Peter's crotch, squeezing his package. “And bring this guy with you.”

Peter gives him a long, mildly confused look. “This guy pretty much goes with me everywhere,” he says.

“Right. Mine too.” Stiles needs to stop talking. “I'll see you tonight, lover boy.”

Peter's eyebrows flick together. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” So, so much. “I’m gonna go now.”

\--

The first thing Peter says when he picks up Stiles that night is, “Nice sweatpants,” which Stiles isn’t sure he actually means.

Whatever. He's seen Stiles in less flattering at this point. It isn't until he realizes this as he heads into Peter's car that he also realizes the sweatpants didn't quite have the intention he was aiming for; he wanted to avoid anything remotely date-like, and he's somehow jumped past date and leapt straight to old married couple who are comfortable wearing extremely unbecoming clothing around each other.

All right, he may've missed the mark on this one.

“I'm glad you're so… comfortable,” Peter says as he starts driving, sounding horribly judgmental. Like Stiles should've come in a sweater vest and a bow tie. “I suppose it's for the best. We’ll be in the car for a while.”

“Why? Is this a road trip?” Stiles asks. “Are we going to Vegas?”

“We're going to the movies, as promised,” Peter says.

Stiles isn't so sure of that, however. Peter's driving nowhere near the theater, and each time Stiles thinks he might be on the right track, he turns the opposite way and makes no move to turn around.

“I think you missed the turn for the theater,” Stiles says. “Pretty sure we passed it.”

“We didn’t,” Peter says.

“Oh boy. You’re taking me out to a field to murder me, aren’t you?” Stiles says, reaching for Peter’s knee and squeezing it. “I should’ve known this was your plan.”

“Not this time,” Peter says. He slides his hand over Stiles’, giving it a reassuring pat. “You’ll see.”

“Oh. _Oh_. Are we about to pull over so you can pretend to fix the engine?” Stiles asks, grinning. “Are you laying your moves on me?”

“I don’t need to do that,” Peter says. “You’re an easy lay.”

“I’m an easy lay?” Stiles says, huffing out laughter. “Who held out for weeks when you were salivating for my dick in San Francisco?”

“You came to my room for _wine_ ,” Peter points out, unimpressed. “And you were one glass away from giving me a lap dance.”

“I resent that,” Stiles says, because he looks back on San Francisco knowing two things: he was restraining himself like hell, and that said restraint was showing in his general demeanor and boner frequency. Also, he would never have the rhythm or coordination to pull off a lap dance. Well—maybe with some George Michael setting the mood, but that's another avenue entirely to wander down into. “I need some real finesse to go into courting me. Flowers and chocolate. Serenades.”

“I haven't done any of those things.”

“Which is exactly why you aren't my boyfriend,” Stiles says, and then promptly goes a little hot around the ear as his words sink in. Would clarifying that he's not looking for Peter to step up to the boyfriend plate come off a little overdone? “Er. Are we almost there?”

“We are,” Peter says, and then turns into what looks to be a stuffed parking lot. There’s a large screen propped up at the end and a few concession stands smelling of fresh popcorn wheeling in between rows of cars, and Stiles is starting to realize just what kind of movie night this is going to be.

"Are you fucking—a drive-in?" Stiles says as Peter pulls into a parking space. "Are we going for milkshakes over at the fifties diner after this?"

He's amazed that there aren't vintage Mustangs all around them full of middle-aged men. How could he have lived in this town all his life and never have known that tucked away in a parking lot by the woods is a little slice of old-timey cinema? How is it that Peter still manages to surprise him over and over again?

"Don't knock it quite yet, my dear," Peter murmurs. "The drive-in has many advantages over an actual theater."

"It lets you relive your golden days?"

"Privacy," Peter says, and suddenly he's unclicking his seatbelt and his hands are firm on Stiles' waist and his mouth is open on Stiles' neck, licking over the skin under his jaw. Maybe the sweatpants are more of an aphrodisiac than he expected. "I imagine we might get thrown out of the theater," he says, "if I were to suck you off there."

"I—ah. Is that happening here?" He tilts his head back as Peter's teeth nibble over his pulse point. There's so little room, there's basically no room, the car’s ceiling looming low and the steering wheel digging into Stiles’ back, and still, Stiles doesn't feel compelled to stop. "You sucking me off?"

"Why not?" Peter asks, and Stiles can feel him grinning against his skin. "Or anything else you might feel like doing."

" _Ah._ Okay. Sold." Stiles reaches out for Peter's shirt and ends up, a second later, being yanked over the center console and into Peter's lap. He finds Peter's hips, squeezing, and lets Peter's mouth surge up and claim his roughly, and okay, this isn't so bad. "Next time, I pick, though."

"You're picking?" Peter says into his mouth.

"Yeah. Like—the bowling alley. Or—or mini golf."

“Fine by me.”

Then Peter’s hand slides down the back of Stiles' sweatpants, bypassing his underwear entirely and cupping his ass, fingers teasing his hole, and this entire encounter goes from one to a hundred in just a matter of seconds.

“I—wow,” Stiles breathes. Peter ducks forward to leave a trail of kisses up Stiles’ neck and Stiles leans into it, closing his eyes and grinning. All around him is the smell of buttery popcorn, and it's weirdly more of a turn-on than he expected. “You think—you think I’m going to stay here with you in this sin wagon?”

Peter’s mouth stops where it’s licking its way up Stiles’ throat. He pulls back, eyebrows knitted together.

“What?” Stiles says. “Haven’t you ever seen Grease?”

“Of course I have,” Peter says. “I’ve just never had it quoted to me during sex.”

“Dude, you brought me to a fucking drive-in,” Stiles says. “Grease quotes are fair game.”

“Fine,” Peter says, and goes back to sinking his teeth into Stiles’ neck, most likely trying to distract him lest he tries to think up more memorable moments from the movie. It works, Stiles’ eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head when Peter’s index finger rubs over his hole while his free hand snakes between their bodies and rubs Stiles’ rapidly growing erection through his pants.

What movie’s playing anyway? Stiles can hear a man talking, and that’s about it. Wait a minute, do drive-ins have previews?

“God, am I glad that this is what we're doing,” Stiles says, already working up a rhythm as he rolls his body down into Peter's touches. He lets his eyes slide closed. “I was, ah. A little worried that this might have turned out to be a date.”

“A date,” Peter says on his jugular.

“Yeah. Something—you know, something serious.”

Peter chuckles. The noise vibrates through Stiles’ skin with Peter's mouth still pressed against his neck, and his hands momentarily slow with their movements against Stiles’ crotch. “Your parents are divorced, aren't they, Stiles?”

“No,” Stiles says. “Why?”

“Just a hunch,” Peter says. “Never you mind.” No, he will not never mind, and Stiles is about to bug him on just what exactly he's trying to say when Peter tugs his earlobe into his mouth and whispers into it, “How about you get in the driver’s seat, and I slide into the foot room?”

Stiles swallows. Peter, if nothing else, is _excellent_ at diverting Stiles’ attention to wherever he wants it. Stiles nods, already dry in the mouth, and in his haste to switch positions, his ass bumps straight into the steering wheel and briefly honks the horn.

“Fuck!” Stiles hisses, ducking down. “There aren't cops at drive-ins, are there? Are we about to go to jail for this?”

“Stiles,” Peter says. “Fifty percent of the cars here with us are doing exactly what we're doing now. If not more.”

“Seriously?”

Stiles peers outside the car window but can't see much, at least not anything glaringly indecent or borderline comical, like a car with steamed windows rocking back and forth. Peter yanks him back in again by the collar.

“Stiles,” he says. “Do you want me to blow you or not?”

“Yes. Yes, yes.” He's not dumb enough to let an offer as good as this one expire; he hurries to get situated in the seat and watches with a practically salivating mouth as Peter slips onto his knees between Stiles’ legs with more grace than is frankly fair for a human to have with this little room available. “Yes, I very much do.”

The sight alone is a little mouth-watering. Peter's hands tug at Stiles’ sweats until he lifts his hips enough to pull them down to his shins, taking his underwear down with them.

“So this,” Peter says, plucking the pants string of his sweatpants. “Was this so I wouldn't confuse this for a date?”

“You're crazy,” Stiles says, looking away to try and make it less easy for Peter to see the blush on his face. “I just like sweatpants.”

“Of course.”

Stiles opens his mouth to keep defending his choice in bottoms, but Peter seems to have other plans than to listen to his sweatpants-themed monologue, as he chooses that moment to take Stiles’ cock into his mouth and guide it in as deep as he can manage.

Stiles shuts the fuck up and grabs the steering wheel for support.

“ _God yes_ ,” he moans, head tipping back. “Peter—yeah, _yeah_.”

He has the bizarre, probably deliriously dumb urge to honk a few times—or a lot—in an effort to make it clear just how good everything feels. If this was a scene in an old movie, now is when it would cut away to a steam train blowing its horn while the wheels go barreling down the tracks. All of this is just so ludicrously cliche—getting hot and heavy at the drive-in, completely ignoring the movie in favor of having sex, to say nothing of the fact that the car has actually starting shaking a bit because Stiles keeps moving his hips to help feed his cock into Peter's mouth. The only thing missing is the handprint on the fogged-up windows.

The hard part here is pacing himself. The slick suction of Peter's mouth around him is spine-tingling, so much so that Stiles can't stop from pushing forward past Peter's lips, greedy for that wet heat, the car seat making noise each time Stiles ruts back and forth. He has to reel himself in just to keep from coming too soon, the sight and the sounds and the sensations—god, the sensations—all shoving him closer and closer. He keeps himself from watching Peter suck his cock, eyes fixated instead on the car’s ceiling.

“Hands down,” Stiles says, “this is the best thing your mouth knows how to do.” He grins, Peter's tongue doing that slow swirl that makes Stiles melt. “So—so much better than when you talk.”

Peter pulls back for a moment to respond. “You're honestly saying that us arguing doesn't turn you on?”

Stiles refuses to admit that, even if fifty percent—possibly more—of their sexlife is rooted in aggressive make outs after fighting about budgeting decisions and the proceeding deliciously angry sex. He squeezes the steering wheel a bit harder as Peter leans in for a few slow, flat licks against the head of his cock, losing his train of thought.

“You're—you're so—” Stiles murmurs, exhaling in what feels a lot like unbridled bliss.

“Amazing?”

“Maybe,” Stiles says, smiling despite himself. “And—fuck—don't forget modest.”

Peter doesn't seem to need Stiles to audibly agree that yes, he is amazing, because he's pretty sure that his body language is communicating that for him, Stiles’ desperate bucks of his hips and needy moans speaking its own language of praise that Peter clearly understands. Peter wraps a hand around the base of Stiles’ length while he lets his tongue play with the tip, everything somehow the right pressure and the right suction and the right heat, and it’s almost starting to feel like a fair trade, because for all the ways Peter works him up by testing his patience throughout the day, blowjobs like this reverse all of that, pulling every last bit of tension Peter's responsible for back out of Stiles’ body.

“Can—can I come in your mouth?” Stiles croaks out, really hoping the answer is yes.

Peter hums his approval, squeezing Stiles’ cock and upping his tongue game to yet another level of skill, and that's all Stiles needs as a green light to let go. Peter doesn’t miss a beat, swallowing down everything Stiles spills onto his tongue and not stopping there, licking along Stiles’ softening cock long after he’s done coming and is just trying to catch his breath, chest heaving.

“You always—you always do that,” Stiles says, trying to wriggle away. “Keep going when it’s too much.”

“I like to see you squirm,” Peter says, squeezing his knees.

Of course he does. “I hate you,” Stiles says.

“Now is that a way to thank the man who just sucked your cock?”

“Okay, fine,” Stiles says, reaching for Peter's collar to drag him out of the foot room again. “That was excellent, and you’re the best I ever had, and everything is great, etcetera, ecetera. This what you were looking for?” He cups the nape of Peter’s neck. “But I will admit that this ridiculous drive-in was a good idea.”

“Say it,” Peter says as he climbs back into Stiles’ space and pulls on the lever that sends the driver’s seat backward, flattening it. Stiles’ hands fly out to grab hold of Peter's shoulders, not expecting the change of position but also not minding it one bit.

“I just did.”

“I would love to hear it again,” Peter says, corner of his mouth tilted upward.

“Too bad,” Stiles says. “You wanna have me return the favor?” He tilts his head to the screen. “Or would you rather watch the movie?”

“You really do ask the stupidest questions,” Peter says, and kisses him just as half the drive-in erupts in a smattering of laughter at something—something not interesting enough to grab Stiles’ attention, that’s for sure—happens on the screen.

\--

“You know, I tried to call you last night,” Scott says over lunch the next day. The cafeteria is serving corn dogs, a treat Stiles thought was long gone thanks to budget cuts, and he can't help but wonder if plenty of sex has put Peter in a good enough mood to loosen company purse strings. He decides to test that out later. “Where were you at?”

“Drive-in with Peter,” Stiles answers. “It was fun.”

“Drive-in? When did you become a teenage girl from the fifties?” Isaac asks.

“Pretty sure I made the same joke last night,” Stiles says. “But hey, it was neat.”

“What movie was playing?”

“No fucking idea,” Stiles says, grin so wide it's threatening to tear his cheeks, and wraps his lips more suggestively than necessary around his corn dog just in case they haven't gotten the hint.

“God,” Isaac groans. “You are so fucking gross.”

“I am so fucking _lucky_ ,” Stiles corrects. “Weren't you the one encouraging my sex life to take off not that long ago?”

“Doesn't mean I need the daily newsletter.”

“Well, you're getting it, and here it is. Sex in a car is _way more possible_ than you think it is.”

“Okay, I think we get the picture.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I can provide more details.”

Isaac’s—not at all juvenile—response is to try and shove Stiles off his chair. Stiles catches himself just in time to avoid faceplanting on the floor, grabbing the underside of his seat and righting himself before he teeters off the edge.

“You guys are so jealous,” he says. “ _So jealous_.”

"Hey, Stilinski," somebody else extremely juvenile says, and when Stiles looks up, Jackson's there, palms flat on the lunch table. Never a good sign.

"Hey," Stiles says, already wary. "What's up?"

Jackson leans in and steals an apple off of Stiles' tray, and seriously, do some people never grow out of that asshole phase? Stiles suddenly feels like he's in the middle of an eighties high school movie.

"You and Hale have been palling around a lot lately," he says, raising his eyebrows at Stiles like he's a lawyer presenting damning evidence. 

Stiles frowns. "We've been working together."

"Seems like it," Jackson says, taking a bite out of Stiles' apple. If he puts that back on his tray, Stiles swears to God— "You know the company has a strict no inter-office relationship policy, right?" He leans in close, dropping his voice to a whisper. "You might want to think about that."

"Okaaay," Stiles says, doing his best to ignore the spikes of panic crawling up his stomach right now. Jackson can't possibly know anything; there's no way he could know anything. "Thanks for the totally inappropriate and unnecessary tip. Was that all?"

Jackson shrugs, leaning back to a comfortable distance. "Just helping you out, Stilinski."

He walks away throwing and catching Stiles' apple like a real life Disney villain with a smug grin on his face that makes Stiles want to throw the rest of his lunch at him just to watch it splatter all over the back of his perfectly ironed shirt. Stiles makes a conscious effort to unclench his stiff arms, relaxing his hands where they're digging into his plastic utensils, and turns to look at Isaac and Scott. They look just as unnerved as Stiles.

"What the fuck was that all about?" Isaac asks. "Are you going to get clobbered in an alleyway after work by one of his goons?"

"He's full of hot air," Stiles says, but he's not entirely sure. He and Peter haven’t exactly been the most discreet people in the world. The number of years shaved off his life just because of people very nearly catching them while they were getting hot and heavy at work is probably astoundingly high, and they’re not exactly the best at remembering to lock doors or stay quiet or keep their sexts out of view. “Think I should be worried?”

“Stilinski,” Finstock yells out, waving at him from the opposite end of the cafeteria. “When you’re done with lunch, come to my office.”

Okay, so maybe not as much hot air as Stiles suspected. He rearranges himself on his seat, sneaking a glance across the table at Scott as his gut swoops. He swallows.

“Okay, maybe a little worried,” Scott says.

“Just lie,” Isaac tells him. “It’s not like that douchebag is gonna have video footage of you two.”

Stiles swallows again. Dear god, could he? Have they been that careless? Or has Jackson just been that creepy and dedicated, two traits that are downright lethal when working together?

“They don’t—they don’t monitor the stairwells with cameras, do they?”

Isaac drops his cutlery. “What the fuck did you guys do in the stairwell?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says instantly, balling up his napkin and dropping it on his tray. His appetite has been completely vacuumed out of him and replaced with a bundle of nerves, so he might as well not beat around the bush and go to Finstock’s office now instead of spend the next fifteen minutes pushing cold food around. “I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

He gets up, turning away from his friends’ less than reassuring facial expressions of uneasy concern. What about that time he and Peter sneaked a make out session in the storage room? Could someone have seen that? Has he really been this stupid about all this?

He's going to give himself an ulcer. 

He hurries the rest of the way through the office and knocks on Finstock’s door, slipping in a moment later. Finstock is looking through what Stiles can only hope are work-related papers and not candid shots of him and Peter making out shot by a detective with a very long camera lens.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Stiles says.

“Stilinski,” Finstock says, putting down the—yes, they’re just papers, not incriminating photographs. Thank the fucking lord. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

What does that mean? It doesn’t sound good. It sounds ominous.

“Look,” Stiles says, wondering if his swallows are audible. “Whatever you might have heard—”

“Oh, I’ve been hearing plenty,” Finstock says. “Peter’s been telling me all sorts of things about you.”

“I—what? Peter?” Stiles came in here fully expecting PowerPoint presentations put together by Jackson pointing to all the telling and damning signs of Stiles and Peter’s relationship, not—well, whatever the hell this is about to be.

“He’s been raving about your work,” Finstock says, which is still just as confusing. What? _What?_ “He’s very impressed.”

“About, um. About what now?” Surely Peter would be fucking smarter than to tell Finstock about their escapades. Surely Peter wasn’t in this from the beginning just to get Stiles fired, which now that he thinks about it, would be as clever as it is _evil._

“Your work,” Finstock says. “He says your social media campaigns are doing wonders for profits.”

“Seriously?” Stiles says. Of all the work Stiles expected Peter to rave about, this is not it. “He really said that?”

“Yeah, I was just as shocked.” Finstock puts his hands on the desk. “Point is, we want you to take on more. We want you to capitalize on this success none of us knew you were capable of.”

“Way to butter me up, boss.”

“We want you to work on marketing for the new product launch,” Finstock says. “This means some more effort and some longer hours from you, but it also means climbing the promotional ladder, if you catch my drift, and I can personally tell you, the view gets nicer the higher you go.”

“Woah, seriously?” Is this what sleeping his way to the top feels like?

“Does that sound like something you’d be interested in?”

“Yeah. I mean, _yeah_. Of course.”

“Wonderful. I hope you’re ready to have your inbox full and much less time to dawdle on Facebook.”

Stiles gives a half-hearted chuckle. “C’mon, I don’t do that.”

“Stilinski, please. _Please_.” Finstock spares him a look, then waves him away like a man shooing pigeons at the park. “Close the door on your way out.”

And that's that, and there's that promotion Stiles thought he would never see in his life and was bemoaning about every Tuesday night because of how woefully unappreciated and underpaid he is, and now it's been handed to him very simply for reasons that are admittedly a little foggy. Is this something Peter genuinely thinks he deserves? Or is this just some kind of bizarre reward for all the good orgasms, like a strange, white-collar version of a sugar daddy? If so, what exactly is the orgasm-to-promotion exchange rate?

When he closes Finstock’s office door behind himself, mind still reeling, the first thing he sees is Jackson watching from a few feet away, drinking a mug of coffee and leaning all-too-casually against the wall. Did he cut lunch short just to do this? Dear god, that isn’t unnerving at all.

“Hey Jackson,” Stiles says, wondering if he was listening at the door and if so, what exactly did he hear that he can later use against Stiles in a court of law? “Working hard, I see.”

Jackson’s mouth curves upward. “Not as hard as you.”

Jesus, that’s unsettling. Stiles frowns and tries to shake off that spiders-crawling-up-his-neck feeling that comes with staring at Jackson’s smirk for too long, and decides that walking away will ultimately be better than accidentally blurting out something he shouldn’t in the name of defending himself. He wheels around, deciding that he has to do something about this.

He and Peter have to be more discreet around the office. Yes, there’s a certain amount of novelty that comes with making out on the copier or faxing each other sexy memos, but it’s not worth the amount of stress-induced cysts Stiles feels forming in his stomach. All it’ll take is one peeping eye catching something it shouldn’t see and he’ll be out on the street, sans jobs, sans salary, and sans dignity, and this office is full of a _shitload_ of peeping eyes.

\--

He stops by Peter's office an hour after lunch to discuss these very fears, but not before thoroughly scanning the hall for any nosy onlookers, the only thing missing being his camouflage and dark sunglasses.

If this office romance gets any more secretive, they're going to be using walkie-talkies just to avoid using traceable phones and sending sexy messages to each other in Morse code. Or possibly invent their own code. Or disguise themselves with lots of tape-on beards and large hats when getting jiggy with it around the office. No matter what, Stiles is going to have to contribute a lot of time and effort, which he isn't exactly thrilled about.

He sneaks into Peter's office when he's sure that the hall is empty. Peter’s behind his desk when he comes in and doesn't even bother looking up to see who it is, like he doesn’t even have to check to know that it's Stiles. Stiles isn't sure if that's strangely domestic or just… very observant of him.

"Hey," Stiles asks. "Got a minute?"

"I suppose," Peter says, checking his wristwatch. "But we have to make it quick. Keep our shirts on."

"Not that."

That piques Peter's interest. He raises an eyebrow, turning away from his computer. “Oh?”

"We have to be more careful," Stiles says as he shuts Peter's office door behind himself and locks it. Unless that's somehow more suspicious? Or is that normal, locking a door for a private but otherwise totally safe-for-work discussion? Stiles has lost all sense of what's typical office behavior. "No more grabbing my ass at the copier."

Peter frowns. "Why?"

"Because people are getting wise to us."

"People?"

"Like Jackson," Stiles tells him. "He's saying things—either he's just rattling me up or he seriously knows something and either way, we should be a little more cautious."

Peter swivels back and forth in his chair. "You're frightened of people finding out?"

"Uh, _yeah_. This office is like a fucking beehive. I'd be jobless by the end of the day if so much as one person saw us making out in a conference room."

Peter looks at Stiles like he's overreacting, which he _isn't_. Not even close. This building is full of so many gossipmongers Stiles can't help but wonder if they're all secretly bored housewives in a soap opera. "No one would tell on us," Peter says.

"Of course they would," Stiles fires back. "You don't know these people like I do. And what we're doing, it's against company policy." He rubs a hand over his forehead, feeling a little warm. The more he thinks about walking home with a termination notice in hand, the more he wheels off into a panic attack just a little bit more. Weren't these the very concerns that kept him from pursuing this thing with Peter in the first place? Has all the sex pushed that completely out of his brain? "You know that Finstock called me into his office this morning? I thought for sure he was calling us out."

"And was he?"

"No. He was—he was promoting me," Stiles admits. "But I was still scared shitless."

"You were promoted."

"Yeah. Because apparently you're going around saying nice things about me," Stiles says, and even saying that out loud feels weird. "You know you don't have to woo me, right? I'm already sleeping with you."

"Have you considered that I'm genuinely impressed with your work?"

"Not really." Stiles scratches the side of his head. "Are you?"

"I am," Peter says. "And I shared my opinion with your superiors." He smirks. "See how good our relationship is for your career?"

"It could also send it nosediving into the ground, you know." Stiles spares a glance at the clock. If he spends any longer in here, people are probably going to start murmuring about just how Stiles is working his way up the promotion elevator, so he should really go back to his desk and at least pretend to be productive. "Listen. My point here is no more ass grabbing in public. So can we—can we agree on that? Shake on it?"

Peter looks at him carefully, like he's already looking for loopholes in Stiles' request. "Fine," he says finally. "No more ass grabbing." His mouth twitches. "In public."

He gets up from his desk, chair squeaking as he does so, rounds it, and grabs Stiles by the shirt, fisting a million wrinkles into it. He drags him in closer, presumably for a quick kiss goodbye, and Stiles turns his head away.

"And, uh. Probably less of that too."

"Fine," Peter says again. "Under one condition."

"Oh god. Am I going to hate this? How much am I going to hate this?"

Peter's lips curl upward. "I want you. Now."

Stiles looks over his shoulder just to double and triple check that he really did turn the lock on the door, which he did. Can't be too cautious, though, not when they've already been walked in on a few too many times to be comfortable. Peter's hands slide over his ass while he's giving the door a once-over, snapping his attention back to the handsy man in front of him.

"I thought you said you didn't have time."

"No, I said we'd have to be quick," Peter says. "I have a meeting in twenty minutes."

"Wow. Deadlines. That's sexy."

Peter kisses him before more snark can come out of Stiles. He can't believe he's falling for this—he came in here with the pure intention of telling Peter to ease up and that they had to cut back on office nooners, and now he's being undressed and coerced into some afternoon sex at work. Again. One of Peter's hands leaves Stiles' ass to shove his jacket off his shoulders, dropping it carelessly to the floor.

"What do we have time for?" Stiles asks.

"I'll show you."

Peter grabs a handful of Stiles' shirt and uses it as leverage to drag him close enough to push him into his desk chair and manhandle him into place, the back of the chair creaking under the sudden onslaught of weight. Stiles grabs onto the armrests and watches as Peter approaches, almost predator-like, and unbuckles Stiles' belt as he gets on his knees. Holy shit, Stiles will never ever tire of Peter on his knees.

Then Peter is shimmying Stiles' pants down his legs and drawing his hardening cock out of his boxers, and speaking of things Stiles will never tire of, Peter's hands wrapped around his dick as he leans in to blow him is definitely on the list. Stiles puts a hand on Peter's shoulder, momentarily pausing this.

"Wait," he says, paranoia tickling him. He reaches forward and makes a grab for Peter's phone. "We should really—you should let Finstock know to hold your calls. At least for the next fifteen minutes."

He picks up the receiver and two seconds later, Peter's yanking the cord out of the phone, and not just a clean yank, but the kind where Stiles can see at least three little frayed wires at the end of the cable that should still be lodged firmly in place. His mouth drops open. Surely there was another option than vandalizing his own office.

"You're genuinely crazy," he breathes.

"IT can fix it," Peter says, sitting up and grabbing Stiles by the chin to roughly kiss him. "You wanted no calls."

"Yeah, and that was one way to do that—holy fuck."

Peter's hand stroking his cock steals the air out of his lungs, abdomen arching upwards while Peter kisses him again and again and his fingers match the same aggressive, merciless rhythm he's executing on Stiles' mouth. Peter bites on his lower lip and squeezes his length and all but pushes him off a cliff to orgasm, and if this isn't fifteen minutes well spent, Stiles doesn't know what is. He cards his fingers into Peter's hair and throws his head back on the ridiculously soft leather headrest on Peter's chair, the spine of it moaning along with Stiles as Peter pumps him fast and hard. 

They really shouldn't be doing this. Stiles came in here to point out that they absolutely can't do this anymore because the walls are too thin and people are too nosy and they're bound to get caught, but somehow, he's now half naked getting jerked off in Peter's chair and can't even bring himself to be mad about it.

Even with how nervous he is, Stiles doesn't take long to finish. Peter keeps curling his tongue over the tendons of his neck and rubbing his palm all over Stiles’ thighs and basically just working Stiles like a flute charming a snake, and by the time he comes, Stiles is like molasses in that chair, limp against the backrest while Peter cleans him up.

“Okay, but. That was the last time we do that here,” Stiles says, and he doesn’t even sound convincing to his own ears, probably because he’s still breathless with post-coital glow. He opens his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” Peter says, zipping Stiles’ pants back up. “I had a nice time last night, by the way.”

His fingers slide over Stiles’ cheek, grazing his jaw, and for one split second, it feels startlingly nice, right before Stiles realizes that that's an awfully romantic thing to say, especially when coupled with that soft caress.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, sitting up abruptly. “Don't make it weird.”

Peter's eyebrows raise up. “Make it weird?”

“You know—make it seem like. Imply that we're.” Stiles shakes his head. That sexy jelliness sitting in legs is vanishing rapidly. “Never mind. Don't you have that meeting?”

Peter gives him an odd look. It gives Stiles the uncomfortable feeling that if he looks at him long enough, he’ll figure something out about Stiles that Stiles hasn’t even come to terms with himself. He looks away.

“I do,” Peter finally says, exhaling. “I’ll text you later.”

Peter leans in to kiss him. Stiles shies away without entirely meaning to, and instantly, there's that funny look again, and Stiles can feel his entire face drowning in a tide of redness under the scrutiny.

“Sounds good,” Stiles says. He gets to feet and makes for the exit before any questions come his way about what the fuck that was about, because he's not even entirely sure himself.

\--

Stiles has a weird superpower, which is that he, for whatever reason, thinks best when he's naked. Some people need to pace, some need to sing, some needs to cook, some need to nap, and then there's Stiles, who takes his clothes off and gets under the covers and if he goes too long without being distracted by sex, he thinks a little too hard.

It would be easier to do less of that if Peter were actually having sex with him, not just teasing the idea of it with his long, lean, naked back as he sits in bed next to Stiles and repeatedly tells him “five more minutes” as he sends out work emails on his laptop. Stiles had been so hopeful that that duffel he came with today was full of sex toys and flavored lube, up until Peter had unzipped it and pulled out a work computer and told him _it would just be a moment._

His definition of “a moment,” however, is very different from Stiles’, because more than half an hour has passed, and Stiles has since turned on some Ricky Martin, stripped down socks and all, and lured Peter into bed with him, and now Peter's sitting up, fingers typing away rapidly on the keyboard, not showing Stiles an ounce of attention as he attends to work shit.

Stiles wishes he wouldn't, because his mind is going wild. He can't stop wondering if Peter's been pimping him out for this promotion for a reason more promiscuous than Stiles had assumed. What if his talent has nothing to do with it, and this was just Peter paying all those countless orgasms forward. What if Peter's just rewarding him for sucking dick so well. What if Peter's not looking him in the eye right now or giving him the satisfaction of sex because Stiles leaned away from that kiss earlier today. What if Stiles’ mind could just _take a fucking break_.

“Can I ask you something?” Stiles asks from where he's tucked into bed next to him, staring up at the ceiling and counting little popcorn bits, caught between being half-hard and half tied into knots by his own overactive stress-producing brain. 

Peter makes a sound, something that sounds vaguely like an agreement. Not a single iota of his attention is being pulled away from his computer, fingers still tapping away on the keyboard, eyes still riveted to the monitor. What could be that interesting on there? What could be more interesting than _Stiles’ naked and waiting body_?

On second thought, he doesn't want an answer to that.

“Did you get me that promotion because I have lots of sex with you?”

The typing stops. “Are you asking if I'm letting you sleep your way up the career chain?”

Obviously it sounds terrible if he phrases it that way. “No,” Stiles says, cringing. “Okay, yes. No. Maybe.”

“What do you think?”

Stiles frowns. “I asked you first. Stop answering questions with questions and just tell me.”

Peter sighs. “You deserved the promotion. You might have been the first person I suggested be more recognized for their work because, unsurprisingly, I think about more than others in the office. You in no way, however, seduced me into raising your salary. I’m fairly certain you couldn’t actually seduce me into anything.”

Stiles supposes he’s right, because otherwise he’d have managed to convince Peter to set the damn laptop aside and suck him off already. He shifts on his side, impatient, and props his head up with his elbow, leaning in enough to trail kiss around Peter’s arm.

“If anyone found out about this, they’d say that’s what happened,” Stiles says. “That I—I mousetrapped you into sleeping with me and promoting me.”

“No one’s going to find out,” Peter says, resuming his typing.

“And what if they do?”

“They won’t,” Peter insists, clearly not interested in indulging in all of Stiles’ hypothetical what-ifs. That, or he’s trying to avoid admitting what Stiles already knows: that Stiles would be demoted if not fired faster than he could try and throw Peter under the bus. “You need to relax.”

Stiles doesn’t know how to do that. He has medication to do that for him, but even so, he knows something that works tremendously well if not better. He snakes a hand under the sheets and curls it around Peter’s thigh, fingers creeping toward his cock.

At least, up until Peter’s hand shoots out and stills Stiles’ wrist, guiding it away. “Stiles,” he says sternly. “I have to finish this email.”

“How many fucking emails are you writing?” Stiles groans. He leans in and kisses Peter’s arm again, gently biting his shoulder. “C’mon. We should be having sex.”

“Patience.”

“No,” Stiles says, trying to pull Peter's hand away from the keyboard. “Work and sex should be separate. You should really check all your work shit at the door. With your clothes.”

“Feel free to get started without me if you're so unbelievably desperate for it,” Peter suggests.

“How dare you,” Stiles says, digging his knuckles into Peter's side. He’s hoping to tickle him, but it seems that Peter's not the least bit ticklish, not a single jolt or jerk of surprise noticeable in him. Yet more proof that he's just not a part of the human species, but rather some unspeakably annoying alien from outer space who has learned how to pass for a person. “If I’m going solo tonight, why are you even here?”

“To watch,” Peter answers mildly, clicking a few things before going back to typing.

“You are terrible.”

“I'll be done soon,” Peter insists. “Just be a good boy and wait.”

The way he says it, it's like Stiles is a fidgeting kid who just can't wait all December for Christmas. Stiles doesn't quite care for that comparison, because that makes Peter his reasonable father, and that's just—no. Stiles doesn't want to be thinking about his father on top of all the other shit circulating through his mind during what should be Wednesday night sex.

“I'm worried about us,” Stiles says. “We’re going to turn into abstinent old codgers who’re really only sharing the bed these days for warmth rather than sexy times. If we aren't careful, our sexlife is going straight in the rearview mirror.”

He says it like it's a joke, but he doesn't entirely mean it as one. He's getting disturbingly comfortable around Peter, and there are too many instances where they do things together that don’t even lead to sex, and that's just not okay. It's not what Stiles signed up for. He doesn't want the two of them lounging in bed together, listening to the evening news while reading boring books in their pajama bottoms before bedtime. He doesn't want to brush teeth over the bathroom counter together while they get dressed in each other's clothing, only sometimes by accident. He doesn't want to create those routines, establish that familiarity. Peter is supposed to be wild and fun and erotic, not homey and warm and easy to show his true nasty self to.

Peter doesn't respond to Stiles’ quip, far too engrossed in his inbox to even be listening. Stiles wants to throw that laptop out the window, make it clear that Peter's household items aren't welcome here. Only his glorious naked self. He's just not sure how to say that without sounding like a lunatic.

“We're getting so boring,” Stiles says, covering his face with his hand and sighing. What he means by that is _we’re really getting awfully comfortable with each other_ , and it's starting to freak him out.

\--

For the most part, alleged favoritism aside, the promotion is nice. Stiles makes about .4% more money now and is flooded with about 400% more work, but at the same time, there's a certain level of respect suddenly coming his way from some of the higher ups that Stiles has never experienced before. That pompous asshole who runs the marketing team even nods at Stiles in the hallways now.

It's almost worth the fact that Stiles can't go two minutes on Facebook without a new urgent company email sliding into his inbox. You'd think he was a fucking EMT, the way everyone now demands speed and precision and quick moving responses from him, which aside from social media checking, has left him with very little time for real life socializing. He used to spend hours just holed up in Scott’s cubicle with him flicking around a paper football, or getting sucked off in Peter's office, or dawdling at the vending machine. Now he's actually _working_.

Even worse than that, he actually has to start using his calendar for something other than just staring at Zac Efron, but for actual scheduling and coordinating. He even has to plan ahead lunch, something Isaac makes no bones complaining about when Stiles finally finds the time.

“You used to be so accessible,” he gripes as they carry their food to the corner table. “Now we're lucky if don’t eat lunch at your desk. If you ever become rich, you'll drop us like hot potatoes. Glad we learned that now.”

“For god’s sake, Isaac,” Stiles moans. “I'm here now, aren't I? I'm just fucking swamped.”

“Yeah, yeah. We all know what you're so _swamped_ with.”

Stiles freezes as he unpacks his fork. “What do you mean?”

“You're not that sneaky,” Isaac says. “I see you come out of Peter's office all red in the face like ten times a day.”

About as red as he's getting now? “It's never ten times a day,” Stiles mumbles. “And I'm currently busy with actual work, I'll have you know.”

“And that's not a euphemism?”

“ _No_.” He frowns, stuffing a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth before turning to Scott. “How many times do you see me come out of Peter's office?”

“Per day?” Scott asks, and that can't be good. “Or hour?”

Stiles pales. “Please tell me you're messing with me.”

“We _are_ ,” Scott says, breaking into a grin, one that Stiles doesn't mirror. If they're both noticing—and Isaac and Scott aren't exactly observant detective wannabes—then how much is everyone else seeing? And what conclusions are they leaping to and then carrying with them to HR?

“Mostly,” Isaac adds.

Stiles isn't all that appeased. He moves his mashed potatoes around with his fork. They're cold, and he's not even all that convinced they were ever warm to begin with. They really need to branch out from the company cafeteria for lunch more often. “I asked him if this—this thing we have going on is why I got promoted,” he says, keeping his voice low. “What do you guys think?”

“Duh,” Isaac says. “That's obviously why.”

“He's joking,” Scott interrupts. “No, that's clearly not the reason. You're good at what you do. And haven't you been saying you deserved a raise for ages?”

He has, but in the same way he says he deserves to rule his own private country or a harem of people to feed him cherries while he sunbathes. Just in an offhand, dreamy sort of sense.

“I know. But is it weird? Are people going to start getting suspicious about this?”

“Finstock was the one who promoted you,” Scott points out. “So you really shouldn't worry. Are you seriously concerned about this?”

Yes. No. Kind of, because he doesn't want to raise any eyebrows but also because he really wants to earn a promotion because he's good at what he does, and not because he's good at what he does under the sheets.

“If you really are,” Isaac says, picking up on Stiles’ hesitance, “then just don't give anyone a reason to be suspicious.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Isaac says in a tone that makes it clear he does know. Very much so. “Less sex at work is probably my first idea. You're not fooling anyone walking around all breathless and giggly with your shirt buttoned up the wrong way, you know.”

Stiles refrains from sharing that he told Peter this very thing, that they have to curtail doing all the NSFW stuff while in a strictly SFW zone, and that it somehow ended with Stiles getting a handjob in Peter's office.

“Good idea,” Stiles says instead, painting on his best game face. He tries another bite of mashed potatoes. Still cold and awful. “I'll cut back on the sexy stuff at work.”

“Halle-fucking-lujah.”

And then, like Peter's magically listening in, because it's just too fucking uncanny, Stiles’ phone starts buzzing on the table as a call comes in. _Peter_ , his screen tells him.

“Just a second,” Stiles says, putting down his fork. He swipes his thumb over the phone to accept the call, pushing it against his ear. “What's up?”

“Lots,” Peter responds. His voice sounds a little huskier than usual, and that should really be a clue.

“Thought you left early today.”

“I did,” Peter says. “Just got home. I'm sitting in one of… how shall I say this. One of your _favorite_ spots. Recounting the memories, if you will.”

Stiles’ mouth twists as a funny little prickle of arousal tickles him like a feather duster. “Your couch?”

“Mm.”

If he really listens, Stiles swears he can hear Peter's pants moving, the sound of fabric shifting. He tries to tune his ears in even harder to see if he can also hear Peter's hand slipping into his underwear and jerking himself off, but that's a little out of his hearing range, and he'd just go ahead and ask, but then he looks around and realizes there's no tactful way to ask someone if they're masturbating while sitting in an office cafeteria. At least, no tactful way that doesn't end in him being essentially subpoenaed by Human Resources and dragooned into taking a class on Professional Behavior In The Workplace.

“You remember the last time you were sitting on it with me?”

Stiles tries to distract himself by shoving more mashed potatoes in his mouth. “Um,” he says after he's done chewing. Still horrible, but at least they're keeping his tongue occupied. “I do. But maybe we could talk about that at another time.”

“Is that so?”

“Uh, I’m a little busy right now,” Stiles says, looking around. Isaac’s eyes are boring into his. “With my friends.”

“Mmm. How busy?”

“Very busy,” Stiles says.

“You want me to leave you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Too bad,” Peter says. “I saw you leave for lunch. You look good today.”

“Um. Thanks.”

“Those pants especially. I’m going to put my mouth all over you when I see you next. Slide those pants off and spread those gorgeous ass cheeks for me.”

In a matter of seconds, Stiles’ mouth is bone dry. He puts his fork down as delicately as he can. “What?”

“I’d have you suck my cock, get it nice and wet for when I fuck you,” Peter says. “Would you like that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I would like that.” Stiles looks up from where he’s staring at his plate, and lo’n’behold, Isaac and Scott are watching him like they can hear the other end of this phone call. God, can they?

“I’d have you on all fours in my office and let me get your ass all ready for me, let me lick you out, finger you until you’re weak,” Peter says, practically _purrs_. “Take my sweet time with you.”

"We could do that when I get back from lunch," Stiles says, readjusting on the chair and pushing his legs together to valiantly try and hide the interest poking up in his pants right now. He covers the receiver for a second, turning to his friends. "Work call."

"I'll bet it is," Isaac says, eyebrows high.

“I'm in high demand these days,” Stiles says before refocusing his attention back to his phone. “And then what?”

“Make you beg for me to get inside you,” Peter says, not missing a beat. “Not give you what you want until you convince me you deserve it.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Stiles chokes out. If he had a tie, he'd be loosening it right now. “I could do that.”

“And once I’d start fucking you, I'd have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet,” Peter says. “You get so loud for me.”

“Uh huh.”

“You get that way for everyone?” Peter asks. “I have a feeling just with me.”

“That’d be correct,” Stiles says. He shifts his thighs, wondering just how obvious it would be if pressed his dick down with his palm under the table. “Um. Maybe I should stop by your place after lunch and we could talk about that.”

“Hmm. Do you deserve that?”

Stiles’ fingers tighten on the phone. If he grips it any harder, he might accidentally crush the screen with his sexually-charged grasp.

“Yes,” he grumbles.

“You sure?”

“Yes. _Yes_.”

He can hear Peter chuckle on the other side of the phone. It's low and sensual and sort of sounds like honey and chocolate and Stiles wants to—no, needs to have sex with him. Pronto.

How is he so easily manipulated?

“Then perhaps you should take a half-day,” Peter suggests. “Come over to my place.”

“I can do that.”

Peter chuckles, the sound low and so, so tempting. “Then come.”

Stiles is already balling up his napkin and getting to his feet, fully prepared to abandon his food in favor of more pressing matters, and it isn’t until he’s stuffing his phone into his pants and taking one quick last sip of his soda that he realizes that Scott and Isaac are very carefully watching him.

“Duty calls?” Isaac says, voice dripping with scathing judgement. “Important work task?”

“Uh, something like that.”

“Right at this very moment?” Scott presses.

“Yeah.”

Isaac throws his empty water bottle at Stiles. “You big liar,” he says. “If you're gonna leave us to have sex, at least be convincing about the fib you're telling us.”

“Fine,” Stiles says, a little too preoccupied with smoothing his hair back and making sure his shirt isn't overly wrinkled to bother feeling embarrassed about being caught in the act. “Work shit wasn't doing it for you guys?”

“No. You can do better.”

“My dad’s stranded on the side of the road?” Stiles tries.

“ _No_.”

“The government... needs me for an important mission?”

“No.”

“Somewhere somebody is on fire and it's on me to do something about it?”

“Just _go_ ,” Scott says, now joining in with Isaac with throwing anything tossable at the table in Stiles’ direction. He narrowly dodges a forkful of peas. “Go before we throw up.”

\--

Stiles might break a few laws driving to Peter's apartment after that, mostly speed and stop sign related. It's fine. He checked both sides of the street and everything. No one was around to see him flagrantly ignoring the rules of the road.

He runs up the stairs to Peter's apartment floor like he's in a marathon in which first place gets heaps of money, not just tiny medals and ten seconds of glory. Now this, this is what their relationship is supposed to be full of: playing hokey at work to have dirty sex and leaving early just for hot orgasms, not lying in bed together filling out spreadsheets and spending the night without anybody coming the entire time. Stiles is glad they're on the right track.

And then he lets himself into Peter's apartment after finding the door unlocked and all of that relief flies right away like a spooked bird.

“Oh. Hi.”

There's someone here with Peter, and he just so happens to be a very handsome man with a jaw that could cut into sheet metal. Stiles instantly has to wonder if he's interrupted some kind of cozy date, which Stiles can't exactly be upset about because nobody's exclusive here and it's not like Stiles hasn't been dancing with hot guys in bars and if by any chance that story comes up again tonight, Stiles is going to tell it _very_ differently than how it really happened, this time with at least eight more men than there really were that night, all of whom were taking tequila shots off of Stiles’ neck.

Still, a flare of something vaguely jealousy-like floods Stiles’ chest. He holds it down similarly to how one might keep down vomit after a night of too much vodka.

“Hi,” Stiles says again. “Sorry, don't mean to be interrupting.” His eyes flicker between Peter and this very attractive man. Why is this very attractive man here at all? “Thought we were supposed to meet after lunch.”

Peter looks at the clock. “My, that's on me,” he says. “We completely lost track of time.”

He stands up, and the Greek statue next to him does too. He's even more muscular standing up than he is sitting down, and Stiles hates that it's very clear who would win in a fight. So much for battling out for who gets to suck Peter's dick. Not that Stiles was considering that. At all.

“That's fine,” Stiles says thinly, eyes stuck on the guy’s biceps, the ones that could probably crush his skull like a cherry tomato.

“Stiles, this is my nephew, Derek,” Peter says. “I believe I've mentioned him before.”

His nephew Derek. His _nephew_ Derek. The information slowly trickles into place like a broken egg oozing everywhere. Stiles blinks.

“Derek!” he finally says, wishing the relief wouldn't be so palpable in his voice as he leans in to shake Derek's hand. “Wow. _Derek_. It's great to meet you, bud.”

Derek's hand is very firm. Stiles doesn't know why he's nervous, but he is, because what if Derek doesn't like him? It's so absolutely absurd and still Stiles can't get his mouth to stop curving in that weird, awkward smile that comes out when he's anxious. Five seconds ago, he was wondering if he could beat this guy in a wrestling match, and now he’s wondering how to be impress him. If his emotions seesaw around anymore, he won’t be able to keep up.

This shouldn't matter, he reminds himself. Peter could bring all his relatives and favorite butcher and regular dentist in here to meet Stiles and it still shouldn't matter, because it's not like he's _meeting the family_ here, not in any official capacity. He just happens to be here when Peter's family is also here, and it's coincidentally cutting into their sex time.

“Stiles,” Derek says, releasing his hand. “Interesting name.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. “I came up with it myself.”

“Creative,” Derek says, with no real inflection. If Stiles thought Peter was a hard nut to crack, he clearly wasn't digging deeply enough in the family tree.

“Me and Stiles work together,” Peter interjects. 

“Yeah, and, um.” Stiles wishes he had a briefcase, a stack of papers, anything to make it seem like he’s here on Official Business. How much does Derek know about him anyway? Has Peter told him anything about Stiles before? “I’m just here to deliver some, uh. Work stuff.”

Stiles cringes. In no way is this convincing.

“Stiles, it's fine,” Peter says. “I've told Derek about the nature of our relationship.”

Stiles would love to ask exactly what it is he's told Derek and that he wants a play-by-play of the conversation, no fucking recaps, but instead he says, “Ah. Great.”

Except maybe not, because now Derek knows that Stiles and Peter are—are, well, seeing each other naked on a regular basis, and somehow the possibility of that makes all this so much worse and more nerve-wracking than it was before, because what if Stiles has to now awe him? What if Derek’s currently mentally rating him on just how worthy he is of his uncle?

The laughter that comes out of Stiles’ mouth sounds much more uncomfortable than he would’ve liked it to. “You’re not here to vet me, are you?” he asks Derek.

“No,” Derek says. “If anything, I’m here to see what kind of idiot would date someone like my uncle.”

“What kind of—what?” Stiles says. “You think I’m an idiot?”

“If you think hanging out with Peter is a good idea, then yes.”

“I’m really not,” Stiles says, although he’s actually not so sure. “Wait a second, we’re not dating.”

“No?”

“This is, uh. A simpler arrangement,” Stiles says, trying to be as tactful as possible here while talking to someone about their uncle’s sex life. “Nothing complicated.”

Peter and Derek exchange looks, Peter expression decidedly smugger than Derek's, which is fairy grim.

“I think that's my cue,” he says, getting to his feet. “Stay out of trouble, would you?”

Peter grins, shark-like. “I always do.”

“Right,” Derek says. He gives Stiles a silent, pointed look that seems to be instructions to make sure Peter actually follows through on that order and slips into his leather jacket. “See you.”

It feels almost awkward once the door closes behind Derek. Stiles drove here with his boner practically manning the wheel for him, but this little encounter with Peter's nephew has dampened his hormonal excitement considerably; now all that's left is an uncomfortable awareness that Stiles probably just made a total fool of himself in front of Peter's family.

Not that it should matter. But still.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“You didn't,” Peter says.

“You sure?”

“You think I’d choose talking to Derek over having sex with you?”

A grin splits Stiles’ face. “Would you?” he asks, knowing the answer.

“Come here.”

Peter yanks him closer until Stiles has stumbled against his chest, no space left between them. The grin refuses to move from Stiles’ face, even when Peter leans in to suck on his neck and nip at his jugular, mouth greedy.

“Did I make a good impression?” Stiles asks, circling his arms around Peter's back. “Or does he secretly hate me?”

“Derek would never hate anyone _in secret_ ,” Peter says. “You did fine.”

“Yeah?” Stiles is happier about that than he should be. “If I had known that he'd be here I'd have prepared a bit. Rehearsed my schmoozing.”

“You know how to schmooze, do you?”

“‘Course I do. You too, I'll bet.”

Peter moves downward to nibble on his collarbone. “You can judge for yourself when I meet your family.”

Meet his family? That's not going to happen, is it? There is absolutely no earthly reason why that should happen. This isn't some rom-com where Stiles’ parents absolutely love his non-boyfriend and then a big storm forces them all to spend the weekend together and by the end, Stiles’ aunt, cousins, and dog have co-conspirated to bring him and Peter together for real. There will be no family get-together.

“Um,” Stiles says, rendered speechless for a scary moment. “You sure you want to do that?”

“Meet your family?” Peter asks, and Stiles nods. He looks more amused than he does apprehensive, which is really not what Stiles was going for. “Why? Are they fearsome creatures to behold?”

“My dad's the sheriff,” Stiles says. Peter doesn't seem all that intimidated by that fact. “And he's never really ever a big fan of the people I—” He clears his throat. “Have, um. Casual sexual relations with.”

“There’ve been many more like me you've introduced to him then?” Peter says, and it sounds like he's stifling his laughter in Stiles’ neck. It's not funny. Stiles’ dad _carries a gun_ and yeah, Stiles has no problem convincing himself that that's a good reason to never, ever have him and Peter meet. Ever.

“No, but. But he's selective about my choice in, well.” Stiles bites his lip. Why the fuck are they talking about this? How did this even come up? He grabs hold of Peter's forearms. “Anyway.” He tips his hips forward, looking for Peter's body. “Where were we? On the phone earlier?”

It has the intended effect: all talk of chummy bonding with relatives is pushed aside in favor of sex, a look of hungry want slipping over Peter's eyes as he pulls back from Stiles’ neck, no longer laughing. The look is so delectable that Stiles very nearly forgets that the stress of meeting Peter’s nephew totally killed his boner, slowly resurrecting it back to life.

“I believe right around here,” Peter says, leaning in and pulling on Stiles’ lower lip with his teeth.

Stiles isn’t going to let himself worry about it, not while Peter’s palming his crotch, and not later when all that’s done. It’s not like the opportunity is ever going to arise for Peter to meet his dad, anyway. It would be a wild coincidence. He has no reason to be concerned.

He should really know better than to be this cocky.

\--

Stiles didn't realize that being promoted would be so damn boring up until suddenly, being an actual part of the marketing team meant attending three times more meetings and being copied on five times more pointless emails and having no free time during the workday to look for Pokémon. In his daydreams, it was always just higher pay and a fancy office and special snacks just for him and the other big cheeses, no actual work necessary.

Needless to say, there are no special snacks.

He's sitting in his fourth meeting of the afternoon, doodling a dragon in the corner of his notes just to keep himself entertained, when he realizes just how terrible success at work actually is. Who can be expected to attentively listen to monotone people speak about droll company handlings this much? He misses all that Twitter browsing he was once upon a time able to do.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as the project manager at the head of the table continues talking about advertising strategies and numbers and what-have-you, and Stiles sneaks it out of his pants as discreetly as possible to take a look.

**Peter @ 2:40pm:** _Remember the time I was fucking you face down in my office after hours?_

Stiles' entire face goes lava-hot. He stuffs his phone away again, feeling as if the entire table has somehow just—impossibly, but still—gotten a glimpse of that. He tries to ignore it, tries to will the heat away from his cheeks, tries to focus on the importance of target audiences in the main consumer stream, but then his phone buzzes again in his pants again and he has to—he just fucking has to—check and see what he's been sent now.

**Peter @ 2:41pm:** _I believe we I had you bent over my desk._

**Stiles @ 2:42pm:** _IM IN A MEETING LEAVE ME ALONE_

**Peter @ 2:42pm:** _I think you were moaning my name while I was fingering you open for my cock._

Dear god, wasn’t the sexy call during lunch enough for Peter? Or was that just the warm-up to this, which surpasses all levels of uncomfortably turned on and skyrockets Stiles into a galaxy of awkward arousal. He folds a leg over his thigh, willing his erection to stay dormant.

**Peter @ 2:43pm:** _And I managed to first make you come just on my fingers._

Yes, that definitely happened, but Stiles can’t be thinking about it right now. He’s sitting in a meeting with a bunch of company big shots who feel it necessary to wear ties to work and if there was ever a bad time to delve into the art of sexting, it’s now. People are talking about data testing and sales numbers and marketing methods and Stiles is having trouble focusing on literally any of it thanks to Peter. If he thought that Peter would get less insufferable after getting the added benefit of sleeping with him, he was horribly wrong.

**Peter @ 2:44pm:** _You remember what happened next, yes? It involved me pushing you over my desk._

**Stiles @ 2:44pm:** _I can't believe you're doing this to me_

**Stiles @ 2:45pm:** _I hate you_

"Mr. Stilinski?"

His thumb has just swiped over the send button when he realizes someone's calling his name, and when he looks up from where his fingers are white around the edges of his phone, he sees that everyone's looking directly at him as if patiently awaiting the answer to a question that he's completely zoned out from, and he realizes, quite horrifyingly, that he was just sexting in a business meeting. It'd be a lot hotter if it wasn't so damn embarrassing.

"Uh. Yes. Yeah?"

“What do you think?”

“I'm, uh.” Stiles squeezes his knee, knuckles white. “I'm in agreement.”

Buzz, goes his phone under the table. Buzz, buzz.

“I was actually referring to what your thoughts on the Instagram campaign were.”

“Right, yes. Of course.” Stiles can feel himself turning bright red. Bright, painful red. “Effective. But, uh. Posting could be more frequent.”

“And do you have the data charts ready that correlate sales numbers with social media posts?”

Stiles makes the mistake of looking down for a split second. _You looked so pretty spread out on the desk taking my cock like such a good boy._

“Yes. Yes! They’re on my computer. Ready to be sent off.”

This is punishment, that's what it is.

“How conclusive would you say your findings are?”

Stiles wishes he knew. Stiles wishes he was really digesting these questions and not just vaguely hearing them because his mind has now been corrupted with images and memories of Peter fucking him over a desk.

“Um. A lot,” he says. He tries to focus. _Concentrate_. “They make it pretty clear that three posts a day starting at noon and ending at seven p.m. are the best times to be seen by our target demographic.”

“We see.”

He learns absolutely nothing from his errors and looks down again. _I love how you look all stretched out and ready for me_.

He's being ambushed. Totally attacked by filth here, and there's nothing he can even do about it. He grabs at the fabric of his pants by his knee and digs his fingers into it until they cramp up.

People are starting to look at him, what with all this vibrating under the table. He's going to turn his phone off, that's what he's going to do. He's going to cut all this off at the source and just shut it off. He looks down, ready to reach for the button—

**Peter @ 3:01pm:** _Or maybe you'd prefer to talk about a different occasion? Like the time I called you into my office and punished you for coming in late?_

**Peter @ 3:02pm:** _Remember how I bent you over and spanked you for being such a bad boy?_

**Peter @ 3:03pm:** _I had you practically weeping for me to fuck you._

**Peter @ 3:03pm:** _Do you remember how many times you came on my cock that afternoon, Stiles?_

Off, off _off_. Off! Stiles hurries to slide it shut and put a lid on this absurdity. He stuffs it into his pocket like he's hiding something shameful that can't see the light of day and tries to focus, to concentrate on the Very Important Meeting in front of him.

“Stilinski, who did you copy on that report you sent out yesterday?” Finstock asks suddenly. “Did you include the design team?”

“Um. Yes. Well. I'm pretty sure.”

“Check your sent folder, would you?” No, no, no, no. “You have your phone on you?”

“Yeah, but it's.” Broken. Cut in half. Flattened by a car tire. On the fritz. “It's.” It feels like a million eyes are blinking at him, waiting. “I could always check later.”

Finstock frowns at him, eyebrows narrowed close together, and that's not a good sign. “Just check your phone, Stilinski. It's good for more than just playing Candy Crush at work.”

He gives Stiles a very pointed look, eyes flicking down below the table where Stiles has been trying to hide his phone all the while, and good lord, he thinks Stiles has been _playing games_ this whole time. Stiles would correct him if the truth wasn't a whole lot less appropriate for work.

“I—okay.”

He turns his phone back on, hands tight on the sides. The people next to him are _staring_ and Stiles can only hope that all of them have horrendous visual impairments and can't see anything on his phone from their short distance away from him. He tries to cup a hand over his phone for a delusional sliver of privacy, waiting as it turns back on with his tongue trapped between his teeth.

And then more text messages come streaming in and Stiles considers hurling his phone out a window. He read once that people do that for fun in Finland, that people do mobile phone throwing contests, so why can't that be a thing here in America, right here and right now?

**Peter @ 3:05pm:** _It was three if I remember correctly._

**Peter @ 3:05pm:** _You just love a hand slapping your ass nice and hard, don't you?_

**Peter @ 3:06pm:** _Almost as much as you love someone bossing you around in bed._

**Peter @ 3:06pm:** _Manhandling you. Getting rough._

Inbox, inbox, _where is Stiles’ fucking inbox_. His thumbs slip on his screen, a little too sweaty to work properly, and he opens up his sent folder biting back hysterical, borderline insane laughter because if so much as one person peeks over his shoulder and catches sight of an incoming text, he is so fired. _So fired_.

“Yes,” Stiles says once he finally navigates his way through his inbox. He doesn't know how this happened, how he went through his whole life being virtually ignored by people he was trying to impress, and now all his most important coworkers are staring right at him and so of course it's when he can't look any of them in the eye. “I sent it to the design team too.”

“Great. Feel free to go back to gaming, Stilinski.”

Stiles considers just burying his face in his hands and waiting for the humiliation to sizzle out, but instead he lets out a huff of horrified laughter and does his best to stay as stony-faced and attentive as possible as the conversation continues around him.

It takes him another twenty agonizing minutes to get out of that meeting. Even with the promise he makes to himself to not look at his phone anymore, not even peek, he can't stop thinking about it, about all the things Peter's teasing him with. Each time he tries to concentrate on the matter at hand— _work_ —he feels a vibration in his pocket again and he's back to being a tightly-foiled bundle of sexually charged impatience.

He storms out of there with the full intent of dragging Peter into a supply closet and giving him the business for that little stunt, but Peter's already gone home for the day, his desk empty.

If he wasn't so damn good in bed, Stiles would have decapitated him by now.

\--

Stiles gets a bit of a surprise when he heads to the bar that night and finds Peter sitting there next to Isaac and Scott, all three of them laughing like a happy little trio.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Stiles asks, stuffing his car keys into his pocket. “Who invited Peter?”

“Just a friendly little after-work soirée,” Peter says, full of faux innocence. “Isaac invited me.”

“We figured you'd be more likely to hang out if your special friend was here,” Isaac says, and Stiles will personally duct tape his mouth shut if Isaac ever says the words _special friend_ again. “Since you've become too much of a worker bee for your friends these days.”

“Blame him.” Stiles points at Peter. “He got me this stupid promotion.” He frowns, catching Peter's smug eye. “Besides, I’m pissed at him. He's been sexting me all day while I've been in meetings.”

“ _God_.”

Peter's smile widens, and he catches Stiles’ elbow and reels him in close, lips brushing over Stiles’ ear. “You enjoyed it,” he whispers, biting down. “No point in denying it.”

“You're an asshole,” Stiles says, but doesn't twist away from Peter's mouth on his ear. “You'll have to make it up to me.”

“Ew,” Scott says.

It roughly reminds Stiles that there are _other people around_ , and he rips himself away from Peter to put a respectable amount of distance between them fast enough to give himself whiplash. He's a fucking moron. They're in _public_.

“Someone's jumpy,” Peter says, hand slipping around Stiles’ waist.

“Come on, anybody could see us,” Stiles says.

“No one from work’s here,” Scott says.

“You don't know. You don't know _everyone_ from work, do you? You don't. There's no way. And what if that guy over there—what if his best friend works with us and he says something? What if he saw us once at a work Christmas party and he recognizes us but we don't recognize him?”

“You need to fucking chill,” Isaac says, dropping a drink in front of Stiles’ face. “Unclench.”

“If you want,” Peter suggests, “we could go to the bathroom and I could find a way to make you unclench.”

Stiles turns tomato red while his friends have the gall to snort and snicker. He needs to adjust to this, the fact that he's now technically allowed to make out with Peter in front of his friends instead of hurry to zip up his pants and pretend they're really just talking about budget reports. It's just _weird_ , all this PDA in front of Scott and Isaac. Do fuck buddies do this? Isn't the way Peter's arm is slung over his shoulders more of a couples-only thing?

He's overthinking. He’s also too sober for this.

“Give me this fucking thing,” Stiles mutters, seizing the glass and knocking it back. Something strong and sharp that's probably just ethanol. “All of you guys are the worst.”

They all laugh at him, cementing the idea that yes, they really are the worst, and to make sure no one orders Stiles one of those nightmares in a shot glass again, Stiles waves at the bartender and asks for a beer. Then Isaac goes right back to complaining about the lack of memory room on his work computer and Stiles’ prickliness is forgotten, Peter’s hand curling around Stiles’ waist to gently stroke his hip through his t-shirt and nobody else even getting close to noticing it. Apparently, there's nothing weird about how close Peter and Stiles are standing. Apparently this all looks and feels very normal and humdrum and everyday, which amazes Stiles, because he expected more ogling and teasing and general hazing.

“How's that stick up your ass?” Peter murmurs in Stiles’ ear halfway through Isaac's rant. His breath smells like rum, like grown-up liquor that Stiles will never be cool enough for. “Have you forgiven me for this afternoon?”

“No,” Stiles says, stubborn. “And there's no stick. You should know. You spend more time up my ass than anyone else.” He shifts for a moment, Peter's hand very warm against his side.“I know what you were trying to do.”

“And what was that?”

“Giving me grief for the whole no-hanky-panky-at-the-office rule I made up,” Stiles says.

_You're upset that I leaned away when you tried to kiss me_ , he thinks but doesn't say.

“So this is a new rule?” Scott asks, apparently listening. “Up until this point, you've been—you've been.” He swallows.

“Having sex in various offices, conference rooms, and empty stairwells,” Peter fills in, smiling without a single shred of shame. “Yes, we have.”

“What happened, did someone get a little too close to walking in on Stiles buck naked?”

“I don't—I've never been fully nude in the office. I think that's worth throwing out there,” Stiles says, feeling a little hot around the collar.

“Okay!” Isaac cuts in loudly. All this talk of Stiles being naked in conference rooms doesn't seem to agree with him; he looks decidedly sour at the choice in topic. “Anyone want to play pool?”

“Sure,” Peter says.

“Thank fucking god.”

The two of them head for the vacated pool table over by the TV, but not before Peter gives Stiles’ thigh a firm squeeze and kisses the back of his neck. Stiles rubs at the spot when he realizes that Scott's watching it all happen, perhaps a little too intently, like he's in the middle of coming to a horrendously wrong conclusion.

“He's cool,” Scott says while Isaac and Peter battle it out over the pool table. “Is it really so bad that we invited him?”

“No, it's fine, it's just. I just.” Stiles drags his fingernails up and down his temple. “We're not—we don't have this kind of relationship. You know, the type where we get all touchy-feely like this in bars.”

Scott is giving him a look Stiles can't quite read but knows instinctively he doesn't like. A look of faulty inference making.

“We're not a couple,” Stiles says, not letting this go. “I don't like him like that.”

“Don't you?” Scott says, and he has the nerve to say it _gently_ , like he's easing Stiles into information Stiles might not have a handle of.

Stiles opens his mouth to tell Scott just how wrong he is, but then Peter sidles up next to them to refill his drink, interrupting the conversation.

“Another rum?” Stiles says as Peter gets the attention of the bartender. “You're gonna get wasted.”

“Even wasted, I’m still a better pool player than Isaac,” Peter promises, and leans in to kiss Stiles’ neck for a moment before he grabs his refilled glass and heads back to the pool table. The spot he kissed tingles more than it should. Why does he keep doing that, kissing Stiles chastely goodbye before heading to what's just another part of the room? And why does Stiles’ skin keep reacting like that, in that warm, prickly, ticklish way?

“Don't say anything,” Stiles says, feeling Scott's eyes on him. “You're making an assumption.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“I don't like him like that,” Stiles insists. “Really.”

“Okay,” Scott says, but he doesn't sound convinced.

Stiles downs the rest of his beer to keep from defending himself until Scott just understands already, because he has the feeling that the longer he harps on this, the less Scott is going to believe him. Which is unbelievably frustrating, because he's wrong. He's very wrong. He just doesn't get that what Peter and Stiles have is simple, free of all the touchy-feeliness that comes with an actual relationship. Easy.

“You wanna join them?” Stiles offers. “Two against two?”

He looks over at the pool table, at the line of Peter's back as he bends over and aims his cue, at Isaac standing next to him making conversation. It's unsettlingly nice, seeing him here, at the bar surrounded by his friends. Stiles probably shouldn't be thinking that.

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Let’s beat ‘em.”

They head over to the table, Stiles’ hand automatically searching out Peter's lower back without him intending to. Isaac looks up, sees him, and stops talking instantly.

“Hey. Whatcha guys gabbing about?”

“Nothing,” Isaac says immediately, giving him a wide, off-color smile. “Just this and that.”

“Mind if me and Scotty challenge you two?”

“Not at all,” Peter says. His arm winds its way around Stiles’ shoulders, the movement easy and natural, and his fingers pinch the sensitive skin of Stiles’ side. “Unless you don't think you can handle it, of course.”

“Oh.” He nods. “I can handle it, and you, and everything else that comes along,” he says, and he’s not so sure about that anymore, but, well.

\--

**To:** Stiles  
 **From:** Peter  
 **Subject:** Fwd: You've received a Groupon!

_Paint night? Seriously?_

**To:** Peter  
 **From:** Stiles  
 **Subject:** RE: Fwd: You've received a Groupon!

_It'll be fun. And it's also mandatory for you. Consider it payback for the stunt you pulled while I was in a meeting._

**To:** Stiles  
 **From:** Peter  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: Fwd: You've received a Groupon!

_Paint night is payback?_

**To:** Peter  
 **From:** Stiles  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: Fwd: You've received a Groupon!

_Yeah! Cause you're going to totally suck at it!_

**To:** Stiles  
 **From:** Peter  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: RE: Fwd: You've received a Groupon!

_You need to get more creative with your revenge schemes._

**To:** Peter  
 **From:** Stiles  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: RE: RE: Fwd: You've received a Groupon!

_I'll work on it.  
I'm picking you up tonight at 6._

**To:** Stiles  
 **From:** Peter  
 **Subject:** RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Fwd: You've received a Groupon!

_Fine. Don't be late._

\--

“Well, you seem very optimistic,” Stiles says as he picks Peter up, leaning his shoulder against his doorway. “Didn't anyone ever tell you not to wear white to a barbecue?”

“This isn't a barbecue, Stiles,” Peter tells him, slipping his jacket on over his pristinely white button-down. “It’s paint night. And I’m a grown-up who can handle a paintbrush.”

“I’m not sure how, but that feels like an insult,” Stiles says, because they both are very much aware that Stiles will not emerge from this evening paint-splotch-free. “Come on, hurry up. It’s BYOP and we have to still pick up the paint.”

“How quaint,” Peter murmurs.

“Didn't you read the Groupon?”

“I didn't bother after seeing the words _paint night_.” Peter's eyes flicker downward, taking in Stiles’ outfit of choice. A hint of a smirk tickles his mouth. “No sweatpants this time?”

“Uh.” Stiles looks down as if to confirm that yes, he's not in sweatpants. “Went for something different. Not that that—means anything.”

God, he sounds like a loon. Why are his clothes now somehow always sending out coded messages? And on a more disturbing note, is _this_ a date? Did he just set he and Peter up for a date and not even realize it?

No. _No_ , for Christ's sake, this is not a date. It's a friendly get-together that Stiles initiated for reasons he's unclear of now, but the bottom line is, he decides if this is a date or not, and he's decided not, so end of story. All buddies with benefits do shit like this.

“Whatever,” Stiles says, shaking his head as if to try and clear out his own pesky thoughts. “Let’s go pick up some paint.”

\--

“That doesn't make any sense,” Stiles says, swinging his bag back and forth, a dozen tubes of paint sliding around with the movement as they walk down the street. “If it's all going down the same drain, what does it matter if I pee in the shower?”

Peter, rifling through his own bag—although his is considerably bigger because he always needs to one-up Stiles and buy the fancy shit—scoffs. One class, one tiny painting, and Peter felt the need to buy the entire set of fifty-three shades of acrylic paint, and also another box of oil pastels to use at home later “just in case creative inspiration strikes.” This Groupon might’ve been a bad idea.

“You realize that's not a shower’s purpose, yes?” Peter replies. “It's not a toilet.”

“Who cares? Everybody uses stuff outside of its purpose.” Neck massagers and condoms come to mind. “Like—like an oven. It's meant to cook food, but it also happens to be a great place to store tennis shoes.”

“You keep shoes in your oven?”

“I—doesn't matter,” Stiles says, shaking his head even though yes, he does tend to utilize free space wherever he can and that sometimes means stuffing his sneakers onto his oven rack. Microwave works too, although that one sees far more traffic—mainly instant noodles—than his oven does. “Give me one _legitimate_ reason why you shouldn't pee in the shower.”

“Because it's _uncultivated_ and disgusting.”

“I said _legitimate_.”

“Because,” Peter says again, “it’s uncultivated and disgusting.”

“It’s like arguing with a child,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes as he sidesteps a lightpost. He smacks his bag into Peter’s chest, and fine, maybe takes one to know one. “You’re a _child_.”

"Stiles?" a familiar voice says from behind.

No. No, no, no, no. What was that about this being a crazy coincidence that would never, ever happen so Stiles wasn’t going to let himself worry about it? No. No no no.

Stiles turns around and wow, yes, there's his dad walking closer with Melissa's arm hooked into his, and Stiles' gut drops a little at the—now unavoidable—prospect of introducing Peter to his dad. How, exactly? How? What words could possibly follow the "I want you to meet Peter, he's my—" part of the sentence?

"Dad, hey," Stiles says weakly. Maybe he'll say Peter's a colleague. Or a friend. Or some weirdo who's currently stalking him around town. "Crazy running into you here."

The sheriff pulls Stiles into a quick hug, as does Melissa, which is all fine and dandy until they look expectantly over at Peter, who, from the looks of it, actually seems a little amused right now. He's probably looking for all the scary loaded guns Stiles mentioned his dad always carries on his person and getting a kick out of the fact that there are none. Besides, the bastard even admitted once that he likes to see Stiles squirm, and he doubts that Peter just meant sex when he said so.

"Who's your friend?" the sheriff asks.

"This is, uh." Stiles grabs Peter's forearm, as if to let that action fill in the blanks, and then promptly realizes that's a bad idea and retracts his hand. "Er. This is Peter. I work with him." That should suffice. That's an adequate explanation. "Peter, this is my dad and Scott's mom, Mrs. McCall."

"A pleasure, of course," Peter says.

"You work with Stiles?" the sheriff says. "What do you do for the company?"

"Financial consulting."

The light of recognition flicking on the sheriff's face is a bad sign, one Stiles recognizes immediately. No, no, no.

"Ohhh, so you're the new guy who's giving my son a rough time."

Peter shares a look with Stiles that Stiles wishes he hadn't caught. "If you recall reducing the quality of the toilet paper a rough time, then yes, yes, I am."

The sheriff narrows his eyes. "I've been hearing slightly different stories."

"Really now?"

"Maybe, but I'll leave it at that, since it seems like you guys have buried the hatchet," the sheriff says, eyes briefly sliding to the space—or lack of—between their bodies. Damn those highly-tuned cop observation skills. That, or he and Peter are not nearly as discreet as they think they are. "I'm not one to dig up old dirt, 'specially not if it's someone else's."

"Regardless, I'd love to hear your version of the stories," Peter says, sounding much too intrigued for his own good.

"You guys on a date?" Stiles cuts in loudly, desperate to stop whatever weird fraternizing is threatening to happen between his father and Peter, gesturing to Melissa and his dad.

"We are," Melissa responds. "You?"

"What? No! No. Really, not at all." Does it look like they are? Stiles curls his tongue against the roof of his mouth and refrains from asking. "Just two colleagues out having some innocent fun around town."

"Uh huh," the sheriff says. He gently unloops his arm from Melissa's, tipping his head over to the left. "Stiles, can I talk to you for a moment?"

Well, fuck. That didn't take long.

"Sure, dad."

He follows his father over to the tree off the sidewalk he's inclining his head toward, circling around it for at least the illusion of privacy. This isn't fair. Meeting Derek wasn't this grueling. And why is it that no matter which family is involved, Stiles is always the one feeling the most ambushed?

"What's going on here?" his father asks.

"With what?"

"You and the finance guy," the sheriff says. "The one you supposedly couldn't stand."

"Yes, well, I followed your advice and took the high road and became the bigger person."

"Uh huh," the sheriff says again. It's the kind of thin _uh huh_ that very clearly means he isn't uh huhing at all, but rather pretending to believe the alleged facts so it's all the more satisfying when the stories don't match up. He leans in closer, lowering his voice a smidge. "You realize I didn't mean to sleep with him to do that, right?"

"We're not—we're. We're not sleeping together," Stiles says, lying through his teeth and his gums too. He looks at his father's face, a face that very blatantly isn't believing a word he's saying. Stiles' shoulders droop. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big deal? Stiles, most companies have rules against this sort of thing," his dad says, doing a spectacular job of telling Stiles what he already knows, thank you very much. "You could get fired."

"I know, dad, jeez," Stiles says. "But that's not going to happen, okay? We're being careful."

Ish, but still. Careful enough.

"What happened to hating his guts?"

Stiles sucks his lips into his mouth. This is more fun? It got hard to hate someone so good with their hands? He might still hate him just a little bit, so at least he's not a total flake?

"Things evolved a bit," Stiles ends up saying, which sounds much better than _the sex is just too damn good_.

"I'll say," his father says. He rubs a hand over his forehead, looking more troubled than Stiles wants to really see here. It's not that big of a deal. Seriously. It's _casual_. "Do you know what you're doing here?"

"Yeah," Stiles says immediately. No other answer is really an option here, even if Stiles doesn't and really couldn't be winging all this more even if he tried. "Of course. And everything's just peachy here."

"Just peachy," his dad repeats, a little doubtfully. He sighs. "All right. You're a grown-up. All I can do is tell you to be careful."

“Dad, don’t worry so much. It’s not—it’s just two friends having some fun. Nothing serious.”

“In my experience, two friends just having fun don’t go out on dates together.”

“This isn’t a date,” Stiles says immediately, because it isn’t, it _isn’t_ , even if he and Peter have been calling it that, and only because, well. What the hell are they supposed to call it? “We’re just—hanging out.”

“Uh huh,” his father says again, voice dripping with doubt.

“Stop saying that,” Stiles pleads.

“Fine.” His dad holds his hands up in surrender. “If you're sure you know what you're doing, who am I to stop you. God knows that would be impossible.”

Stiles hears what he's saying, but he's really having trouble seeing past the extremely doubtful look on his father's face. It sounds less like he trusts in Stiles’ ability to act responsibly and more like he thinks the only way to help is to let nature run its course because he suspects Stiles is too thick-headed to let logic actually swoop in and save the day. Like the only option at this point is to crash and burn and then learn from the wreckage.

How reassuring.

Stiles turns back around to where Peter is making small talk with Melissa, grabbing his elbow and tugging on his sleeve.

"Ready for paint night?" he asks. 

Peter looks at him, eyes only briefly sliding over Stiles' shoulder at the sheriff. He smiles. "Of course I am." He holds a hand out for Stiles' father to shake. "Lovely to meet you both. We'll meet again, I'm sure."

"I hope so," the sheriff says, with no small amount of unease, and Stiles claps a hand on his shoulder as he and Melissa walk by them with a quick wave goodbye.

"Well. That was weird and awkward, right?" Stiles asks, watching them retreat down the sidewalk and chewing on his tongue.

"You must've said some flattering things to your father about me," Peter says, and his tone is too even for Stiles to make out if that's positive or negative emotion in his voice, and before he can ask, Peter changes topics and asks, "Shall we? Paint night awaits."

"Yeah," Stiles says, falling into step with Peter again. 

He thinks he should probably say something, knows that that would be the appropriate thing to do, like clarify that he was only badmouthing Peter back before all the sex started or that he really wasn't all that harsh with the gossiping he spread along to his family, but it feels like it'd be... strange to bring up, for some reason, probably because it would imply that Peter inherently cares about Stiles' father's opinion of him, and why would he? He's not going to be asking him for his blessing in marrying Stiles or anything remotely near that, thank the lord. It matters about as much as Derek's opinion of Stiles does.

He looks over his shoulder as they walk, watching his father head down the street. He then sticks his hands in his pocket, just in case Peter decides to grab one and his dad turns around and looks. Just in case.

\--

Stiles is a terrible painter. He figures this out about three, maybe four brush strokes in as he tries to follow along with the class and create something worth slightly more than say, five pennies. Pablo Picasso probably felt this way a few times about his work and its worth. At least, he probably did if he was ever as horrible as Stiles.

Being horrible at painting would honestly be much better if Peter wasn't so damn good at it. Peter picks up a paintbrush and gets going like a natural artist, which is both annoying and somehow what Stiles expected. Peter is frustratingly good at so many things. Handjobs. Blowjobs. Cooking. And now this.

And for as much Stiles would like to win this competition and be a better artist than Peter, Stiles knows pretty quickly that he's losing this battle. Around here there are dozens of easels all painting the same thing—a generic bowl of wax fruit—and even the half-drunk gigglebox of a woman a few feet away is doing a better job than Stiles at blending colors and creating shade. He tries to fix his errors by getting his thumb in there and smoothing out the problems, which unfortunately only results in him inadvertently painting himself and leaving fingerprint streaks on his canvas.

"You’re horrible at this,” Peter whispers to him at one point while the teacher wanders around giving tips. It certainly doesn't help that she took one look at Stiles’ painting and clearly considered it to be beyond help, giving him no advice whatsoever. “Why exactly did you want to do this again?”

“Because I thought you’d be worse at it than me,” Stiles admits. “And of course you’re not. You’re good at too damn much.”

Peter sighs. “It's a curse.”

“Shut up,” Stiles says.

It's also more work than Stiles anticipated. It's also more _fun_ than Stiles anticipated, which is almost surprising considering that Stiles has spent over an hour with Peter here and still hasn't taken his clothes off. Clothes which, frustratingly enough, are still pristinely white, not a single fleck of paint to be seen. His apron may have something to do with that, but Stiles’ apron has very obviously taken more hits today considering it has fresh paint smeared all over it that makes Stiles look like a fingerpainting child.

“I think mine’s just a little more interpretive than yours,” Stiles reasons. “It's abstract. Stuff like this just ends up more in… contemporary museums.”

“Don't confuse sloppiness for modern art,” Peter tells him. He's fucking _adding highlights_ over there, flicking the tip of his brush around his canvas with a precision like he's channeling Michelangelo over there.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Stiles tells him. 

“Obviously,” Peter says, like he's fucking Picasso or something and has the right to judge. “Next time, we're doing something that offends your ego less.”

_Next time_. Is there a limit to how many times they can go out on date (or date-like nights out) before things get weird?

“And what would that be?” Stiles asks. “Bumper cars?”

“Oh, no. I’m much too good at that,” Peter says, throwing him a self-assured smile.

They paint for another hour or so before time is up, at which point Stiles understands why the 21-and-up version of this activity exists. He's pretty sure being tipsy on wine would've made his work infinitely more impressive had drinking been a requirement for the class, and as it stands, he's still dreadfully sober. Everyone around him is going home with a masterpiece and he's going home with what might as well be the fingerpainting project of a six year old.

The only plus is that he genuinely enjoyed himself. It was fun, almost like being back in elementary school art class, no finesse necessary, and there's not even a bad grade card awaiting him this time around for painting outside the lines.

And it was kind of neat to see Peter with a paint brush and an apron and continuously have him lean over to lick his thumb and wipe stray bits of paint off of Stiles’ temple. It made him feel a little like they were executing a Rembrandt-based roleplay in which Peter was the tortured artist who was woefully misunderstood and Stiles was his mistress who was also taking art lessons from him on the side, so that was kind of fun.

All right, a lot of fun.

"What are you planning on doing with your masterpiece?" Peter asks after they drive to Stiles’ place and climb the steps up to his floor.

"Thinking of making it into a family heirloom. Getting a safe for it to be treasured in. You know, the works," Stiles says as he unlocks his apartment door. His canvas art—not quite a masterpiece in reality, but whatever, he tried—is tucked under his elbow as he pushes the door open, knocking into the doorframe. "What about yours?"

"I'm thinking of contacting the local museum to have it showcased," Peter says, following him in as Stiles flicks the lights on. "As for yours, I can take it out to the garbage bins when I leave if you'd like."

"Keep talking smack about my painting and that'll be soon, pal," Stiles says, propping it up on the kitchen counter. "I clearly have an undiscovered talent on my hands here."

"You're a regular starving artist in the making," Peter says. "Emphasis on starving, specifically."

"Ha, ha."

Stiles heads over to the kitchen sink to wash the dried paint off his hands, kicking off his shoes along the way. He listens to Peter make himself comfortable behind his back, to the fabric rustling as he slips his jacket off to the tapping of his thumb on his phone as he most likely checks Instagram. Stiles wonders if this is weird, that he knows what Peter's doing without looking to check, that he knows so much about his routine. Does this happen with people you're casually fucking? Is this some kind of warning sign?

Actually, if anything was a warning sign, it was running into the sheriff tonight and having to fumble his way around his words to explain what exactly Peter is to him, at least outside of work parameters. It's easy to say someone's your colleague. A little harder to say that—at least persuadingly—when you're on your way to partake in a Groupon activity together. 

He dries his hands off, feeling much warmer than he was ten seconds ago just coming in from the cold when he thinks about how bluntly his father had pointed out that Stiles had no qualms with complaining to people about Peter to the point of leaving a very strong impression of his sour opinion of him. That won't be making the list of this month's Best Moments.

"Listen," Stiles says as he takes his coat off. "Do I have to say I'm sorry for what happened earlier with my dad? Is that something I'm supposed to do?"

"What?" Peter says. "Why?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking," Stiles says. "For the record, I didn't say anything _terrible_ about you. I was just... being honest."

"Stiles, I'm not upset."

"Really? Cause I probably would be."

"It's fine. I can handle a few bad reviews."

"Well, if it means anything to you," Stiles starts, "I've since revised them. I could issue a re-print, if you'd like."

"And what would that say?"

He shrugs. "That you're not as bad as I originally thought you were," Stiles says. "And you're not always an asshole one hundred percent of the time."

"Not sure that would be worth a re-print."

"Okay, fine, and you're also really good in bed and I like your hair," Stiles says. "Happy?"

"Getting there," Peter says. "What else?"

"I don't know, you're sometimes nice? And you smell okay. And you look good in everything. And all in all, I'm glad we work together and that your office door has a lock on it."

“I smell okay?”

“Yeah, cause of the—the expensive aftershave you use. And all the cologne you cake on.”

“ _Cake on?_ ”

“Just come here,” Stiles says, grabbing Peter by the shirt and tugging him in close enough to kiss. He’s not so great with his words around Peter—he’s not even sure what it is, but Peter makes him so damn tongue-tied it’s almost hard to believe he knows the English language. He swipes his tongue over Peter’s lower lip. “Can we just please have sex now?”

“Sure,” Peter says, taking mercy on him. “But first, I have an idea.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “Take your shirt off. I’ll meet you in your bedroom.”

Stiles likes everything that involves him shirtless when Peter's around, so he doesn't bog down the request with questions. He heads for his room and flicks the lamp by his bed on and discards of his shirt—then also his pants for the hell of it—and makes himself comfortable on his unmade bed, wiggling his socked feet.

“Slide onto your stomach, would you, Stiles?” Peter murmurs once he stands in the doorway.

Stiles does so. He twists around on the bed, propping his chin up on his forearms, and feels the dip in the bed as Peter sits on the edge of it before sliding closer and straddling the back of Stiles’ thighs, knees firm around his hips. His hands find their way over Stiles’ shoulders afterwards, squeezing firmly at spots of tension Stiles has probably been carrying for years, and Stiles’ eyes gently shut at the sensation. He remembers that conversation in San Francisco, how Peter had divulged that one of his go-to moves was a good massage, and he hopes that he gets to see more of that now after the abridged version he got a taste of that night on the pier.

“I like where this is going,” Stiles says as Peter's hands start to work along his back, kneading and circling and working with the tight muscles there.

“You're extremely tense,” Peter says. “You wouldn't be secretly uncomfortable around me, would you, Stiles?”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, I always let people I'm uncomfortable with touch me while I'm naked,” he says, shifting his hips under Peter's weight. “No, what you're feeling is the cold hard consequence of being a cubicle monkey.”

“Ah.”

“And that fucking promotion,” Stiles says, dropping his forehead to rest on his wrist as a contented sigh rolls out of his throat as Peter drags the palms of his hands down his spine. “It's good, but it's also a pain.”

“Many things in life are,” Peter says.

“Good, but a pain?” Stiles repeats, and Peter hums his agreement. “Like you, you mean.” Peter digs his knuckles into Stiles’ vertebrae a little harder than probably necessary. “Ow. Uncle.”

“I hardly touched you,” Peter says, but his hands go back to gentler, softer rubs, and yeah, Stiles sort of gets why this is one of his moves. It's sensual and intimate and damn _effective_ , because five minutes later and Stiles is growing a little hard against the mattress, his cock straining for a touch, for pressure, as Peter drags his hands up and down Stiles’ backside.

They keep up their heavenly torture for either an eon or roughly twenty seconds—Stiles has no clue because Peter's hands have melted him into a dimension where time doesn't exist—before they give Stiles’ shoulders one, two, only three more firm squeezes and stop moving entirely.

Stiles pulls his nose out of the mattress. “What's going on?” he murmurs. “Don't stop that. Never stop that.”

“Shh,” Peter says. “Lie still.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Peter doesn’t answer. His hands slip away from Stiles’ shoulders, further down, and then they’re gone altogether, leaving Stiles to zone in on nothing but sounds, like the uncapping of a plastic bottle, possibly—hopefully?—lube.

Then soft bristles brush down his shoulder blades, dragging a cold wetness down his skin that makes Stiles jolt a bit. Is that—

“Are you using paint on me?” Stiles asks, trying to look over his shoulder.

“Shame to let it go to waste,” Peter says. “Just relax.”

“The paint’s cold, you jerk.”

“It’ll warm up,” Peter says, right before smearing another blob of cool paint down his spine, a sharp contrast to his hot skin.

The sensation of paint drying on Stiles’ back is a curious feeling. It reminds him of mud runs as a kid, how the dirt would crystalize on his flesh, pulling it together, stiffening the movement. Eventually, the paint does warm up, smooth and sticky on his back. He tries to figure out what it is Peter’s painting, what the end result might be, but Peter’s strokes are too long to follow, full of too many curves, slow and deliberate and a little bit sensual, and—oh. Maybe that was the point of all this.

“What are you drawing?” Stiles asks.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Is it a naughty rendition of me?” he asks, trying to arch up and peer over his shoulder but finding the attempt moot. “Get my nipples right if it is.”

“Is it possible for you to shut your mouth, Stiles?” Peter asks, voice level. He pushes Stiles back down into the mattress, clearly not pleased with how Stiles is distorting his work when he moves around. “For longer than perhaps five minutes?”

“It is,” Stiles says. “But if it bothers you, I'm never gonna shut up.”

“Exactly what I expected,” Peter says.

The painting goes on for forever. At one point, it nearly lulls Stiles to sleep, the soft brush and the then-warmed paint almost imitating a feather-light massage on his back, only his mounting arousal keeping him alert. He shifts a few times on the bed, either trying to readjust his hips or provide some friction for his erection, he's not sure yet. Depends how much longer Peter plans on working on his art before he shows Stiles mercy. Knowing Peter, they could be here all night.

"You nearing completion back there, Van Gogh?" Stiles asks. He lifts his neck a few inches to catch a glimpse at the alarm clock; it's well past midnight by now. "Unless you don't mind me sleeping while you work."

"Sleeping?" Peter repeats. "Oh no. I think I can think of a few ways to keep you awake."

"Yeah?"

Peter makes a suggestive noise of confirmation, and then very slowly, his paint brush glides its way down Stiles' spine, curving all the way over to Stiles' left butt cheek, extending the painting. It's almost ticklish, up until Peter's other hand cups his right cheek, palming it with a firmness that definitely goes a long way toward waking him up. The brush keeps swirling and swirling over the swell of his ass, occasionally dipping down to the back of his thigh, even the inside of his leg, taking Stiles and glacially getting him worked up even more than before. If he thought his boner was bothering him earlier, it's nothing to what he feels like now, his cock very nearly weeping against the sheets with every deep stroke of Peter's brush.

Then the handle gently prods at his leg, pressing in until Stiles gets the message to spread his thighs. He swallows, cheek getting warmer against the bed, and shivers when Peter blows a breath out over his hole, the sensation just as frustratingly light as his body painting has been all night long.

"Your body's already a work of art," Peter murmurs, lips moving against the scarce bit of unpainted skin on Stiles' thigh. "But I couldn't quite help myself."

Stiles wants to, more than anything, roll over onto his back and wrap his legs around Peter, but there's still slick paint on his flesh, undried, and these sheets are too nice to turn into an art experiment, so he settles for second best and scoots his legs up just enough to stick his ass out into the air, wordlessly requesting more attention from Peter.

"Stiles," Peter says, even as he's still rubbing his ass, "haven't you ever been told to not touch the art?"

"Doesn't apply here," Stiles says, a little desperately. "And we all do it when no one's looking anyway."

"And I believe... no one's looking now," Peter says, and Stiles can hear the smile in his voice, practically see it in front of him as if it's right there. "Lucky you."

Lucky me, Stiles thinks to himself, and has to agree when Peter finally ducks in and flattens his tongue over Stiles' hole. He gasps, muffling the sounds in the sheets beneath him, hours of foreplay through slow, meticulous painting and massaging making him more than ready, if not a little tightly wound, for this part right here.

Peter spoils him a little, Stiles thinks. He doesn’t think he’s ever been treated like this, revered like this, sexually pampered like this. Peter's good at what he does, his mouth sucking a filthy kiss over Stiles’ hole, and of course he's good at this; he's good at everything. Stiles pushes his ass up, begging silently for more, and Peter rims him until he’s nearly sobbing, tongue steady and unrelenting, mouth warm against his skin, stubble rough on his skin. Stiles squirms, desperate to turn around and touch Peter too, but he can feel the paint still prickling dry on his back.

“Peter,” he whines.

Peter's hand presses down on the back of his hipbone. “Don't,” he says when Stiles starts twisting around. “You're going to ruin your sheets.”

Fuck, Stiles doesn't care about that anymore. He doesn't care about anything except getting Peter on top of him and finding some friction for his cock, so he pushes against Peter's grip and turns around anyway, smearing paint everywhere just as promised as he jerks Peter into his space, wrapping his legs around him and dragging him close by the back of his neck.

“I wasn't finished,” Peter complains, but Stiles silences him with a firm kiss, digging his heels into the small of Peter's back. He can feel the slick paint rubbing off on the sheets underneath him, but now that the damage is done his reservations have completely abandoned him, leaving him to writhe and squirm and dirty up this bed as much as he damn well pleases.

“You can't—do that,” Stiles says, swallowing between kisses, “to my ass and then not expect me to react.”

“Oh, I definitely wanted a reaction.”

“Well, here it is,” Stiles says, and kisses him again.

Their kisses don't slow down, not for a while. If anything, they get hungrier, deeper, more unyielding, until Stiles is left whining into Peter's mouth and rutting up into his body with his hips to draw attention to his harder and harder yet dick. Peter laughs—apparently Stiles’ desperation is subjectively funny—and one of his hands slips down Stiles’ back to the curve of his ass, feeling along his still-wet hole with one of his fingertips.

Stiles moans, breaking away from Peter's mouth to shudder. Peter rubs against his entrance, thumb greedy where it's touching the ring of muscle, and Stiles doesn't bother to hide just how needy he's getting. After all that foreplay, he's ready for this. He's _been_ ready for this.

“Peter,” he groans. “Just get the fuck inside me already.”

“Too tight for me, darling,” Peter drawls, of course intending to draw this out to point of agony, just like he always does. “I’m getting my fingers in you first.”

Stiles groans. He squirms, can feel the paint slipping around under his back, and opens his legs wider so Peter has easier access. Stiles can't very well say no to that. Peter is unfairly good at fingering, knows exactly how to arch and twist and turn his fingers until Stiles is digging his teeth into his tongue to keep the entire floor from hearing him, and as impatient as he is, he can spare the time necessary to have Peter give him a taste of that.

If Stiles likes giving blowjobs, Peter likes fingering people into complete madness. Stiles can only surmise as much from the slow, deliberate, purposeful way Peter does it to him each time they fuck, fingers always steady and unhurried inside him. It's the same now as he teases Stiles’ hole with his thumb before sliding in his index finger, the saliva easing the way up until he starts prodding with a second finger and it's just dry enough for Stiles to wriggle and Peter to make a noise of disapproval, pulling his hands back.

“What did I tell you?” Peter says. “Too tight.”

“Just shut up and grab the lube,” Stiles grumbles, hips shifting.

Peter does, and a second later, he’s pushing Stiles’ legs up and there's a cool slickness nudging at his hole, making Stiles gasp. The two fingers slide in without a hint of pain this time, all previous dryness replaced with a hot slipperiness that makes Stiles’ ass clench and mouth fall open. 

“God,” Stiles says, the pillow under his head starting to get a little damp from his sweat. He rocks his body into Peter's touch, begging his fingers to go deeper.

“Do you want something?” Peter asks, the bastard.

“ _Yeah_.”

“And what would that be?”

Stiles squirms, so, so tempted to kick Peter off the bed. He would if all this didn't feel so damn good, especially when Peter's fingers start scissoring apart and twisting in circles and pressing harder inside him, pulling more coherence away from Stiles’ brain.

“Don't be so fucking cheeky,” he says, short on breath. “You already know.”

Peter's free hand wraps around Stiles’ dick while his occupied fingers nudge his prostrate before retreating again. “I'd like you to go ahead and tell me.”

“You—aah—are the worst,” Stiles says, because he has to, and drives his nails into Peter's shoulders.

“Not quite what I'm looking for.”

“You! Your cock, I want your fucking cock, and I wanted it forever and a half ago!”

“Aren't you _aggressive_ ,” Peter says, chuckling. “Where are your manners?”

“Please,” Stiles spits out. “For heaven’s sake, fuck me, please and thank you.”

His plea is heartfelt enough for Peter to actually do something about it. He pulls his fingers out of Stiles, squeezing Stiles’ thigh when he whimpers at the sensation of them slipping free, and leans over to the nightstand to grab a condom. He busies himself with that, but not without also kissing and biting his way around Stiles’ chest, the phenomenal multitasking jerk.

“All right,” Peter says, and then his cockhead is nudging Stiles’ entrance and Stiles is shaking a little bit. “Legs around me.”

Stiles wraps them around Peter's backside as Peter positions himself in place, still smattering kisses up his chest. He has to remind himself to breathe, to use his lungs, and right as he's slowly inhaling, Peter pushes into him.

He doesn't do it all in one blow. He goes inch by inch this time, easing into Stiles, letting Stiles surround him. It feels like millennia pass until he's inside and Stiles is left panting, clutching onto Peter and clenching around him, already breathless by the time he's all the way in.

“Happy now?” Peter asks.

“Very.”

Peter rocks into him slowly, Stiles tightening his legs around Peter's back as his cock slides in inch by inch. Being face-to-face like this gives Stiles the opportunity to see more of Peter than he usually does, the lamplight illuminating bits of the scene that Stiles drinks in almost greedily—the sheen of sweat on Peter's neck, the parted lips sucking in careful breaths, the hands clenched white on Stiles’ hips. Stiles doesn't ever want to lose this, this unadulterated passion, this ease which their bodies know each other with.

“Peter,” he groans. He reaches for his forearms. “Faster. Come on, old man, give it to me already.”

The challenge seems to work on Peter. He pushes in harder, hips snapping forward, the force of his thrusts pushing soft moans out of Stiles’ throat. Stiles makes a mental note to goad Peter in bed more often, because it most definitely seems to work this time, Peter's grip digging into Stiles’ skin.

“This more to your liking?” Peter asks, cock driving in even deeper than before with his next thrust.

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles moans. He moves his hands to the back of Peter's shoulders, letting himself drag his fingernails up and down and leave scratches, hopefully ones that will stick around long enough for Stiles to admire his work tomorrow morning.

The bed is creaking just a little. Stiles can hear the thump of the headboard each time it hits the wall, can already anticipate the scolding he'll get from his neighbor for all the pounding, all the ruckus, but he couldn't care less right now if he tried, his world too wrapped around Peter, Peter's body, Peter's movements. He drops his legs from where they're wrapped around Peter's back when the exertion gets to be too much, letting them fall open on the mattress, and his knee knocks into the paint brush, pushing it onto the floor.

“Shit,” Stiles breathes. “‘M making a mess.”

“Not surprising,” Peter says, and hands dig into Stiles’ back, dragging paint down his skin that he smears over to Stiles’ hips, leaving mottled, greenish streaks over his waist.

“Stop,” Stiles says weakly. “I'm—now I'm a mess too.”

“I like you messy,” Peter tells him, kissing him silent.

Stiles doesn't fight back, just winds his arms around Peter's neck and keeps him close while they kiss, their mouths sloppy against each other in the heat of the moment. He supposes cleanliness has flown out the window no matter what, what with the paint still slick under his back now all over the sheets, the pillowcases, and even smeared over Peter too. It’s weirdly liberating, feeling all that mess between them, so much so that they might have to do this again, but maybe with preventive measures the second time around, like plastic wrap over his bed.

It seems to be thrilling for Peter too, given the way he’s fucking Stiles like he’ll be given a score when he’s done, pulling moan after moan out of Stiles’ throat. He always gets loud when Peter fucks him like this, all slow and steady and somehow also deliciously rough, and he tries to hold back, keep the horribly embarrassing whines and whimpers at bay, but Peter’s having none of it, biting into the soft curve of his neck and forcing the sounds out. Stiles’ breathing is getting more and more labored, his body more and more overheated.

“Love marking you up like this,” Peter says against his jaw, and whether he means with the paint or with his mouth, Stiles supposes it has the same effect: a stamp, of sorts, an _I was here_ that probably drives Peter crazy. It drives Stiles crazy too, if he hasn’t made that obvious yet. “You like it as well, don’t you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles moans, his legs desperately trying to pull Peter closer where they’re hitched around his back, drag him deeper, bring him nearer. There’s no space between them, but Stiles still wants less, still wants them touching everywhere. “Yeah, I do.”

Peter makes it that much harder to breathe when he reaches between them and finds Stiles’ cock, smearing the precome around with his thumb and using it to slick the way for his palm. His hand is warm and rough and suddenly Stiles is so much closer to coming than he was a second ago, his head spinning.

“No one else,” Peter says, his hand merciless on his cock. The pressure of his palm combined with the force of his hips as he snaps into Stiles over and over is leaving Stiles gasping, dizzy, drunk.

“Yeah, yes, yes,” Stiles says, babbling along incoherently more than anything else. “Yes, promise. No one.”

When Peter comes, the guttural groan that slips from his lips is almost enough to push Stiles over the edge too, but it’s the last few uncoordinated tugs on his cock that get him there. Peter's mouth sucking over his neck’s pulse point rides him through it, eyes closing and hands weak where they were previously clenching Peter's shoulders.

He almost whimpers in protest when Peter pulls out of him, the sudden emptiness overwhelming, but just as he throws his forearm over his eyes and tries to breathe again, Peter's pushing his legs up to clean him up and wipe away any stickiness left behind from the lube. Stiles twitches, much too sensitive and somehow still wanting Peter back inside him, back on top of him, and it isn't until he opens his eyes and sees that Peter's using Stiles’ t-shirt to clean him that some of that orgasmic bliss fades away.

Oh well. Stiles’ entire bed is covered in paint; now hardly seems like the time to get upset over one shirt.

Peter slides back up Stiles’ torso when he's done, laying warm kisses on his side while Stiles wraps his arms around Peter's shoulders and pulls him closer, kissing him soundly on the mouth. It's a lethargic, slow kiss, without any tongue or brimming passion, but it still feels nice, almost comfortable.

“Wow,” Stiles breathes on his lips. “That was—holy shit.”

“Can I make an educated guess and say that relaxed you?”

“Understatement,” Stiles says, because he feels like his entire body has been transformed into pliable play dough.

“You've been so tense.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “And part of that's because of you, you big jerk.” He exhales, completely unwilling to get up and get all the sheets washed even though he knows, logically, that he should. “All the messing with me. Sexting me at work. Calling me when I'm with Scott and Isaac. Me meeting your nephew.”

Peter's hand on his chest stops moving for a moment. “Why would meeting Derek make you tense?”

Stiles shouldn't have said that. “It didn't,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “Never mind.”

Derek's fine. Meeting Peter's family is fine. Stiles has no logical reason to worry about what Derek might think of him, if he thinks he's a good fit for Peter. That's ridiculous.

“Stiles,” Peter says, squeezing Stiles’ side. “Relax. You understand this is all supposed to be enjoyable, yes?”

“Yeah. _Yeah._ I'm just—” Stiles doesn't even know. Thinking too hard? Thinking too much? All he knows is that they shouldn't be talking about this now when Stiles is so sexed out and sleepy and likelier to let out something he shouldn't. “Never mind.”

“It's worth reminding yourself of that now and then,” Peter says. “All those things you just mentioned—you know I did them to get you to loosen up, yes? We’re supposed to be having fun.”

“And I am,” Stiles insists. “How is sexting me in a meeting supposed to loosen me up?”

Peter grins, the curve of his mouth pressed against Stiles’ cheek as he talks. “It's supposed to make you feel… naughty, perhaps,” he suggests. “Risky. Spicy.”

If Peter came with a label, Stiles thinks that's what would be on it. Naughty, risky, and spicy. And maybe also annoying as hell, hot to the touch, and unfairly nice blue eyes.

Fuck. It's thoughts _like that_ that make him so fucking tense in the first place.

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” he says. “I'll try and relax.”

“Good,” Peter murmurs, kissing the shell of his ear. 

He settles down on the bed, pulling Stiles next to him where the sheets escaped the merciless paint attack and aren't covered in drying, sizable blotches of color. Stiles curls into his chest willingly, both to edge away from the dirty section of the bed and also because Peter happens to be an excellent human pillow.

“Wait,” Stiles says, twisting around a little to try and get a glimpse of his backside. “What did you paint on me?”

“It's completely ruined now.”

“So what was it?”

“Well, since you can't prove me wrong,” Peter says. “It was an exact replica of the Mona Lisa.”

“Of course it was.”

“It most definitely was,” Peter insists, folding himself down next to Stiles and pulling him in close. Stiles’ back must've dried, because Peter pulls him snugly against his chest and slides an arm around his stomach to keep him close. “Don't question my artistic talent.”

Stiles smiles. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

\--

The next morning, Stiles’ sheets are indeed ruined.

“Told you,” Peter says around his toothbrush, coming to stand next to Stiles where he's staring, a little embarrassed, at his colorful mess of a bed, paint smeared everywhere. The pillowcase. The linens. The bedsheets. It looks like a very sloppy piece of contemporary art. It also didn’t help that waking up was an acutely uncomfortable process: half of Stiles’ side had fused with the bed, paint drying him onto the sheets and forcing him to peel himself away. It felt very much like waking up as a half-finished statue, like someone had poured stiff concrete over his backside while he slept.

“Shut up,” Stiles says, sighing. Peter moves away to the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth. When did Peter bring his toothbrush here?

Actually, when did Peter start actually spending the night?

“It won't wash out,” Peter says, barely audible over the rush of the faucet in the bathroom. It turns off, and then Stiles can hear Peter tapping his toothbrush off on the side of the sink. “It's too dry now. You'll need new ones.”

“You know, it's your fault,” Stiles says, lifting a corner and running his thumb over a smudge of paint. Definitely completely dry. “You were the one who had to paint my naked body like some kind of weirdo.”

It was amazingly hot. But Stiles isn't going to bring that up now.

Peter comes out of the bathroom, and he snakes his arms around Stiles’ middle, pulling him flush against his chest from behind. “Mm,” he hums against Stiles’ neck. “How does a new set of sheets sound?”

“Necessary.”

Peter slides a warm palm over Stiles’ stomach. “Then let’s get you some. My treat.”

“Wait, seriously?”

Peter nods, his jaw grazing Stiles’ shoulder as he does. He smells like Stiles’ toothpaste. “You wouldn't have done this if I hadn't rimmed you so hard you couldn't help yourself anymore,” Peter says, so matter-of-factly, so casually, even as Stiles’ dick seems to perk up at his words. “There's a Bed, Bath and Beyond nearby. We could go after lunch.”

“You want to go to Bed, Bath and Beyond with me?”

“We could go to IKEA if you prefer,” Peter says. “Eat lunch there.”

Stiles looks down at his ruined bed as he wonders if that's something fuck buddies should really be doing with each other. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees.

So they go to IKEA, but not before they first take a shower and Peter meticulously scrubs all the paint off Stiles. Stiles likes all the tiny houses, the three-hundred square feet apartments modeled into space-saving homes, and Peter likes all the glamorous kitchens with fifty different drawers and cupboards. They walk through the entire showroom, and then the marketplace, and then stop at the cafeteria for meatballs after Peter's found Stiles satisfactory sheets—ones nicer than the ones Stiles owned before—and now and then, Peter licks his thumb and rubs away a spare fleck of paint on the back of Stiles’ neck.

It's nice. Stiles is starting to get more and more worried.

\--

October first marks the date of a wonderful, prestigious, very important day on Stiles' calendar. Team Building Exercises Day. Also known as, kick the shit out of your coworker's asses over very professional, grown-up versions of tug-o-war, dodgeball, and wheelbarrow runs. An adult’s Field Day, which is just as aggressive and ill-advised as it sounds.

It's pretty much the only legal way Stiles can ever get out all of his bottled up resentment against his coworkers who make him want to quit his job and become an innkeeper in Iceland, short of leaving sugarless gummy bears on all the desks of the offending people. It also doesn't help that Stiles gets a little crazy about competition, and not only loves winning, but also hates losing. Especially to people like Jackson who always win because they're the poster boys of throwing elbows when the ref isn't looking.

He shows up to work in costume, aka: sports shorts, calf-length varsity socks, and a headband salvaged from his lacrosse days back in high school. Dressing the part is important; he’ll swear by that.

It’s also pretty damn nice that he only has to pretend to work for about an hour before everybody gathers outside and gets ready to throw down, and he’s already planning on ignoring his work emails and cruising through Twitter until that time comes. He's ready for today. He's been _needing_ today after all these fucking emails avalanching into his inbox.

Stiles heads for the bathroom ten minutes before he's expected on the grass, making sure he won't be needing any bathroom breaks in the middle of flag football, but just as he's walking down the hall, he gets unceremoniously yanked into a storage room by a hand that shoots out of nowhere to tug him inside. Stiles lets out a scream he's not proud of, not a shred of bravery to be heard, but to be fair, that did feel a little like a kidnapping, at least it did up until he groped the wall for the light switch, flicked it on, and saw—

“Peter, I swear to god,” Stiles grumbles, heart beating out a frantic drumroll against his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Did I?”

“You couldn't have just texted me to meet you here?”

“Where's the fun in that?” Peter asks. 

He reaches out to shut the light back off, dropping them into a private darkness. Even so, Stiles decides to take extra precautions and pushes Peter behind an aisle of shelves of binders, just in case someone randomly pokes their head in here and sees the two of them necking. Stiles can't be sure that that's where they're headed, but their history and some educated guesses are giving him an idea.

He's proven right, unshockingly, when Peter runs a hand down his chest and steps a bit closer.

"You going to be a good boy and let me win out there?" Peter asks, crowding into his space.

"Hell no," Stiles says, grabbing his shirt collar. "No offense, but any orgasms you've ever given me go out the window in the name of competition."

Peter leans in and nibbles under his ear. "Anything I can do to change your mind?"

"Jackson Whittemore is on your team, so no," Stiles tells him. "He has to go down."

"Any other day, I would agree," Peter says, rubbing his thumb over Stiles' jaw while he sucks on Stiles neck. "But not today."

"Your morals are terrible," Stiles mutters even as he tilts his head aside to give Peter better room. "Defeating Jackson always needs to be a priority, no matter the—oh—circumstances."

"And if he was on your team?"

"Suicide mission," Stiles says. "I'd rather he lose than I win."

"I admire your unabashed hatred."

"And I admire that thing you're doing with your tongue," Stiles says, looping his arms around Peter's neck. “Now stop trying to bribe me with it.”

The door suddenly creaking open and the lights flipping on gives Stiles enough of a warning to push Peter to a work-appropriate distance and pretend to be extremely engrossed in the box of staplers on the shelf nearest to him, doing his best to not let on to the fact that he was just in the middle of making out with a colleague.

A few footsteps shuffle around the room, and Stiles can hear someone helping themselves to the box of pens stacked on the shelf by the door. The door opens and shuts again thirty seconds later after they leave, and Peter immediately snakes a hand up Stiles’ shirt, yanking him back close again. Seriously, if this happens a lot more, Stiles can kiss his healthy heart goodbye.

“Where were we?” Peter murmurs.

“No, no more distractions,” Stiles says, turning his head to deflect Peter's incoming kiss. It lands on his jaw instead. “I'm supposed to be getting in the zone.”

“The zone?”

“ _Yes_. This kind of task requires concentration.”

“Mm,” Peter says. “Then me and my shorts must be your kryptonite, am I right?”

Stiles looks down despite himself at Peter's shorts. They are obscenely tight, like the kind bicyclists wear during the Tour de France to stay as efficient as possible. Stiles licks his lips.

“Foul play,” he says. “I call a penalty.”

“And what does this penalty entail?”

“You driving yourself back home and putting on baggier clothes. Like, unbelievably big clothes. I don't even want to be able to tell that there's a human man under all the fabric.”

“Doesn't sound very aerodynamic.”

“All the better,” Stiles says. “If you have any ankle weights, put those on too.”

“Is this your strategy? Bog down your competition?”

“That, and maybe trying a few distraction tactics of my own.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows in an attempt to convey coyness, then hooks his finger into the neckline of his shirt to slowly pull it down and reveal just a smidgen of his collarbones. Mega sexy.

“Oh my,” Peter says, voice completely flat. “How will I ever be able to concentrate.”

“You won't,” Stiles promises, reaching out to pinch Peter's cheek. “You totally won't.”

Peter grabs him by the wrist and tries to reel him in, and he's just about an inch away from mauling Stiles’ mouth and being successful, when the door screeches open again and Stiles jumps back once more like he's been tapped with a shock wire.

“Ah,” Stiles says very loudly. “ _There_ are the pens. Found them.”

“Subtle,” Peter says.

Stiles pushes him into a shelf of binder dividers. Or rather, he tries to, and his hand isn't strong enough to unseat Peter. Whatever. Stiles is taking him down once the games begin.

\--

It's pretty much the perfect day to be outside. The air is crisp, but not too cold, and the sun is out and warming up the place into a comfortable autumn day, ideal for running around and chasing your coworkers to tackle them during a game of tag football.

"All right, all right, everyone," Finstock yells after blowing his whistle once, twice, just about three times too many and Stiles' eardrums have rescinded into his skull. "It's that marvelous time of year again, and with that marvelous time of year come rules, so remember: no eye-gouging, nut-kicking, hair pulling, spitting, or intentional punching. If it happens on accident, let it go and don't come crying to anyone. Don't be an embarrassment to your team and just keep playing." He blows his whistle again one more time, most likely just to be obnoxious. "Capiche?"

There's a murmuring of agreement. Finstock claps his hands together.

"Splendid! And remember, everyone's a winner. Except for the actual winners, who'll be getting company-logoed travel mugs as prizes. Oh, shut up, Greenberg, would you rather get nothing at all?"

Stiles turns to the rest of his team. Most of them are strong competitors with the exception of the IT guys in the back, who are built like pencils and have probably never exercised a day in their lives. Other than that, he has a good line-up working with him, and he's expecting results. He would’ve preferred to have Scott or Isaac on his team, but Finstock has been fastidious in making sure that doesn’t happen anymore ever since Team Building Exercises Day from two years ago went as badly as it did.

Jackson steps over to him, standing beside him like they're pals having a friendly chat. Stiles compulsively pulls his shirt a little higher to cover any potentially visible hickeys he might've gotten after that frisky morning in the storage closet.

"Shame you and Hale aren't on the same team," Jackson says, smirking. "You'd be too busy sucking his dick to actually focus on beating us."

"Jackson, for a guy who claims to be straight," Stiles says, doing his best to ignore any bubbling panic inside his chest at that comment, "you sure talk a lot about me sucking dicks."

"Just making an observation."

"Yeah, one totally appropriate for the workplace, by the way!" Stiles yells after him as he starts walking away, refusing to give him the last word here. "Not at all tasteless!"

He tugs his shirt over his neck again, just in case. God, is he going to crush that asshole.

\--

They start with soccer, which Stiles' team wins thanks to early morning energy and a burning competitive drive that unfortunately wears off a tad by the time they make it to football. They catch a second wind after that, totally dominating in volleyball, but also pay the price in the form of two engineers who trip over each other and sprain their ankles and spend the rest of the game on the bench before hobbling off to the medical station. War is rough, life is unfair, yada, yada. Stiles at least intends to make sure their sacrifices weren’t in vain.

"Looks like we crushed you losers at rugby," Jackson says, beaming. He has two smears of black paint under his eyes by now like he thinks he's Tom Brady. "Spiritually and physically." He leans in. "Too busy staring at your boyfriend?"

Stiles grinds his teeth. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"How sad," Jackson says. "Then again, I'm not exactly surprised."

"Yeah, thanks for the trash talk, Taylor Swift."

"Aww, don't worry," Jackson says. He puts his hand on Stiles' shoulders, fingers like claws, and Stiles nearly sucks the life out of his water bottle as he drinks and drinks and ends up denting the plastic out of sheer hatred for the little fuckwad standing next to him right now. "I'm sure you don't have to be a winner to qualify for Hale's sex toy."

"Jackson, you say one more word to me, and I'll—"

Scott's stiff arm suddenly landing on Stiles' shoulders and hastily guiding him away from Jackson's smug face is the only thing keeping Stiles from shouting out the kind of expletives that would need to be bleeped out of news stories with the vehemence of a thousand painful poisons.

"Here we go," Scott says, gently patting Stiles' shoulder. "Don't let him get to you."

"He's an asshole," Stiles grits out. "Just let me take a swing at him. I'll pretend it's unintentional."

"I have a better idea. Channel all that energy into the tug-o-war contest, okay?" Scott suggests. "Just take it all out on that big rope."

It's not bad advice. Stiles would prefer to cut out the rope entirely and go head-to-head just like they used to in medieval times, with good old-fashioned swords and helmets, and just fucking battle it out until Jackson's left beheaded on company property. That'd be nice.

Nevertheless, the rope will have to be good enough for now. Stiles rolls his shoulders around and takes his place with the rest of his team on the left hand side of the rope.

He can see Jackson's douchebag haircut over the heads of some of the others. He focuses on it like he's hoping to sear it all straight off with sheer power of mind, grabbing the rough, bristled twist of rope next to him.

A whistle blows. Stiles starts yanking.

The immediate rope burn is insane. The fibers of it are rough and prickled like thorns, digging into Stiles’ palm the second he grabs hold, but worrying about the pain just isn't an option right now. Everybody's yelling and every time the rope slips one way it loses momentum and comes back again the other way, refusing to make this a cut-and-dry game. Stiles gives it everything he's got, feet almost losing traction on the dirty field beneath him, tugging and shouting and pulling just about as much as his height and weight physically allow him to. If they win this one, he’s not even sure he’ll have any energy left to face off against the next team, but who the fuck cares, because this isn’t even about the game, it’s about _Jackson_ and how that asshole needs to _lose everything_.

He pulls and pulls and pretends it's Jackson's nut sack he's tugging on and he ends up pulling so hard that—

The line gives way, just a little, and Stiles just has the time to blink before his hand is snapping back and his fist is knocking directly into his own face. There’s one sharp, excruciatingly strong snap of pain throbbing through his forehead like a lightning strike, and then things go black very quickly.

\--

When he wakes up, he's laying on extremely uncomfortable carpet and his head is _killing_ him, which isn't all that surprising given he somehow managed to punch himself in the face.

Maybe he needs to ease up on the competitive spirit a bit.

"Don't get up yet," Peter's voice says the second Stiles tries to sit up, and a moment later, his face comes into view. Above him is the familiar drabness of an office ceiling, which means he must’ve been out long enough for him to be relocated inside. Not reassuring. "Exactly how many versions of me are you seeing?"

"I'm fine," Stiles says, waving Peter aside. "Although an aspirin sounds heavenly right about now."

He reaches up to touch the spot on his head where the throbbing is coming from, but before his fingers can make contact, Peter's seizing his hand and pulling it away.

"You have a bruise the size of a meteor," he says. "Don't touch it." He leans a bit closer, eyes narrowed. "This wasn't the infamous work of Jackson Whittemore, was it?"

"Unfortunately, no," Stiles admits. "As much as I'd love to throw him under the bus, this was me being a little too into tug-o-war." A thought strikes him. "Our team won, didn't we?"

"Tug-o-war came to an abrupt halt when you crumpled to the ground," Peter says dryly. "Greenberg thought you were dead. He's not great with high-pressure situations, is he?"

"No," Stiles says, remembering the stress of the office's Secret Santa extravaganza circa 2014 all too well and how extremely poorly Greenberg handled it. "Can I sit up now?"

Peter sighs, pressing the back of his palm to Stiles' cheek and feeling for warmth. Whatever results he returns with seem to satisfy him, and he pulls on Stiles' shoulder to help him into a sitting position, hand slipping from Stiles' forehead to his hair, grazing his uninjured temple.

"Funny you should say it. I was pretty close to fighting Jackson, actually," Stiles says.

"You shouldn't. You wouldn't win."

"Thanks," he says with a half-hearted glare. "He was being an asshole today. Hell, he's an asshole every day, but today wasn't great."

"What'd he do?"

"He keeps... I don't know. Threatening me?” His head hurts. Stiles shuts his eyes, trying to will away the pain, and finds it too persistent. “Keeps talking about how he sees us hanging out. Like he knows something."

"He doesn't know anything," Peter says, and the firmness with which he answers actually assuages Stiles' worries a tad. "He's just trying to rattle you."

"So on one hand, I get that," Stiles says. "But on another hand, he's—I don't know. He's really creeping the fuck out of me."

He's reminded of the very things he was so paranoid about when they first got together, like either of them being fired because what they're doing goes against company policy. Most people wouldn't care even if they did get a little reckless and made out in the copy room, but someone like Jackson? Jackson would rat them out in a heartbeat just for his own personal pleasure. God, Stiles really should just go for what he's been daydreaming about for years and sneak laxatives into his morning coffee.

“You should be happy, you know that?” Stiles points out. “This injury is the work of me basically defending your honor.”

“What?”

“Jackson got me so worked up calling me your sex toy,” Stiles says, and fine, maybe he was defending his own honor. “And it got in the way of my zone.”

“Ah. Your precious zone.”

“Yes, my zone.”

Peter's hand on his shoulder calms him down a smidge. "Relax. We can handle an idiot like Jackson."

Stiles wants to believe him, and everything Peter says always has such an air of certainty behind it, so he kind of already does, but it’s just… unnerving. He sighs, tilting his head so it's nuzzling Peter's hand on his shoulder, and wraps his hand around the collar of Peter's shirt, a little dirty from all the rugby. Stiles has to admit, when he wasn’t busy trading glares with Jackson, he was finding it a little hard to look at anything other than how Peter’s shirt tended to ride up when he ran. He tugs down, pulling Peter in for a slow kiss, mostly because anything faster or harder would probably make his aching head spin.

A soft knock on the office door breaks them apart in time to see Scott and Isaac step inside. Both their uniforms are completely soiled and Isaac has mud on both his knees and his cheek, so Stiles takes comfort in the assumption he makes from their appearances that even if their team lost, other teams went down swinging taking Jackson off his pedestal.

"Hey," Scott says. "Stiles, you okay?"

"Been better," Stiles admits. "And I don't remember my name or what planet we're on, so there's that."

"He's joking," Peter says, squeezing his knee. "He's not an amnesiac. He's just a moron."

"Same as before, then," Isaac says, scratching his neck and coming back with supremely dirty fingernails. "Want us to drive you home?"

"That's all right," Peter says before Stiles can answer. "I'll take care of him."

"All right," Scott says. "Text us later, Stiles?"

"Try not to let him die, yeah?" Isaac adds.

"Thanks for that," Stiles says, rubbing his temple. His head still feels like a construction site is pounding away at his brain, and Isaac's voice sounds shriller than usual because of it. "Just in case, you're not invited to the funeral."

"Come on," Peter says, tugging at his wrist with one hand and steadying his back with the other, gently pulling him to his feet. "Let's get you home."

Stiles groans at the pushing and pulling as he stands up, the world swaying a bit under the steady pounding his head is still thumping with. "I can drive. It's fine. I can't just leave my car here and then—then skip my way to work tomorrow."

"I'll drive," Peter says firmly, which is probably a good idea since Stiles is starting to see kaleidoscope versions of reality in front of himself right now. "I'll spend the night at your place and we'll take my car together tomorrow."

The walk out of the building to the parking garage is a little hazy for Stiles. All that really sticks out to him is being carried around as easily as a sack of feathers, Peter's arm keeping him upright and walking without stumbling the entire time like it's secretly made of steel. It's dark out, so everybody's most definitely long gone, and Peter's car is one of the last left over in the garage. The beep it makes when Peter unlocks the doors is almost too loud in the quiet space, and Stiles busies himself with the radio once he's deposited inside to keep from nodding off. Should he even be sleeping right now? Will he wake up with his brain fermented into an overcooked noodle if he does?

"Can't believe I basically missed out on Team Building day," Stiles laments, rubbing at the tension spots behind his forehead, careful to avoid the bump there. His head is throbbing. "Best day of the year."

"Best day of the year?" Peter repeats, incredulous. "You clobbered yourself."

"Did anybody cry?" Stiles asks. "What did they all say?"

"They were worried," Peter tells him. "You went down like a flimsy lightbulb."

"Nice." A thought strikes Stiles. “Were you the one to carry me inside?”

“I did.”

“Didn’t you miss out on the game?”

Peter cuts him a sidealong glance like Stiles has his priorities completely out of order. “You do realize that you were knocked out on the ground, yes?”

“Yeah, but.” Stiles’ brain is too smacked around for him to try and riddle out how he feels about that. “That was nice of you, that’s all.”

The streets are calm the entire ride home. Stiles tries to hoodwink himself into thinking that he's just letting his eyes rest when they droop halfway closed, the gentle road and the soft noises of the running engine all tremendously conducive of sleeping, and Stiles realizes halfway there that they're headed to his own apartment and that he doesn't even have to give Peter any directions. He just knows where it is, has memorized it without any help needed from a GPS, which for the modern world, feels like a romantic moment. The slogan _I can make it to your house without technology_ pops into his head, and Stiles makes a mental note to himself to look into romantic greeting card careers come tomorrow morning.

It's dark out by the time they make it to Stiles’ place. Peter even knows where Stiles’ favorite parking spot is, and Stiles pretends not to react to that.

"Want to come up?" Stiles asks.

Peter frowns. "I told you I'd be spending the night," he reminds him. "Or were you planning on me driving off and you roller skating to work tomorrow?" Peter shakes his head. "How hard did punch yourself in the face?"

"I'm fine," Stiles says. "Maybe I just like flirting with you."

“That's what that was?”

Stiles hits him in the arm. At least, that's what he's aiming for, but what ends up happening is that the back of his palm slaps Peter's chest like an old fish. He's still a little woozy.

He hardly registers Peter turning the car off and helping Stiles get to his feet, or his own arm circling around Peter's neck and clinging on. The fact that Peter doesn't sweep him off his feet and carry him to the apartment like a new bride is definitely a small victory, even if the way Peter drags him to the door ends up in a lot of uncoordinated stumbling on Stiles’ end as his feet try to catch up. He can still walk, goddammit, and he's not about to faceplant into the pavement if Peter lets him try, but something about Peter's firmness on his waist is… pleasant.

“You're good to me, you know that?” Stiles says, touching Peter's hair. “I like you.”

Peter looks away, searching for Stiles’ keys in his pockets, but Stiles catches the tail end of a smile before he does. _Casual_ , Stiles reminds himself, mouth a little dry. _Keep this casual_.

Peter flicks the lights on when they step inside and he sits Stiles on the couch, Stiles dimly comprehending the sounds of him dropping the keys on the counter and toeing his shoes off. Peter is very at home here—or at least, he acts like it, a theory stabilized when he helps himself to the water bottles in Stiles' fridge and sets the thermostat to the right temperature. Stiles watches all of this with a pang distinctively not occurring around his head injury, instead somewhere a little more central and heart-oriented, which he firmly pushes aside because _he cannot give any time to something that stupid_. He shakes his head to throw that thought out and away, focusing on slipping out of his jacket and hanging it up.

"I assume you're tired," Peter says, and then he's rooting around in the cabinet by the microwave where Stiles keeps his spare ibuprofen and handing him some. "Water?"

Stiles nods, taking the proffered bottle out of Peter's hand and unscrewing the lid while Peter talks of the instructions the medical staff told him about making sure Stiles treats his injury correctly. He can't believe that they've somehow reached a point where it's normal for Peter to take care of him and fuss over his health and make sure he's okay after work in a way that doesn't even include sex, and when exactly did that happen, anyway? Was Stiles not looking?

"Thanks for, you know," Stiles says after he swallows down the painkillers. "All this."

"You're welcome," Peter says. He leans in closer, rubbing a thumb over Stiles' cheek, eyes fixated on the swollen spot higher up. "Your bruise still fine?" 

"As fine as it looks, I imagine."

"So, horrible."

"Thanks for that," Stiles says, head throbbing just a little too much to come up with a better comeback. "I think I'm gonna hit the hay before I accidentally catch sight of my face in a mirror."

"Need me to tuck you in?"

"No," Stiles says. "No bedtime story either." He heads for the bedroom, already pulling his shirt over his head and flinging it onto the ground to be cleaned up eventually, and crawls onto his unmade bed. It's soft and forgiving under his body and is already lulling him to sleep just five seconds after wrestling the sheets over himself.

He doesn't fall asleep, though, not yet, ears tuning in to the sounds of Peter preparing the coffee machine in the kitchen and bolting the front door and apparently tidying up the place a bit before bed. A few minutes pass before Stiles hears Peter's footsteps on the old floorboards by the bedroom doorway, the light briefly flicking on and erupting color on the other side of Stiles' eyelids.

The covers get eased off of him next, at which point Peter pulls off Stiles' pants and removes his socks and lays his belt aside, all his movements gentle, gentler than expected. It should almost feel parental, but it doesn't; it just ends feeling soft and romantic and careful. Stiles is surprised to realize that he's grateful that Peter's here and would maybe even say so out loud if he wasn't pretending to already be asleep, grateful that he knows how to work the coffee machine and what temperature Stiles likes in here during nighttime and where to put his socks after tugging them off of his feet, and Stiles is so overwhelmed by this—this _gratitude_ that he suspects is laced with another emotion that he refuses to identify that he ends up rolling in Peter's direction once after he gets settled on the other side of the bed, burrowing close to his side. He wants to say something, like thank you, like _Isaac would’ve drawn dicks on my face if he had been here instead_ , but his entire body is tired, too tired to form the words aloud.

Peter strokes the hair by his ear and whispers something Stiles doesn't quite catch, something he wishes he did, and then without meaning to, he falls asleep.

\--

His head feels a little less like a crushed grape when Stiles wakes up the next morning, but still painful enough to remind him of yesterday's tug-o-war disaster and all of the consequences it inspired. Stiles rubs his forehead, shuts off his blaring alarm, and prays that he doesn't look like a swollen bee-allergy victim when he looks in the mirror. Maybe he should just avoid mirrors altogether. Keep himself in the oblivious darkness on just how poorly his face handled his own beating.

He almost forgets that Peter slept here with him until he looks over at the bed and sees that the sheets on the other side have been disturbed, even though Peter seems to be long gone and has apparently forgotten about their carpooling arrangement. Lovely.

“Bastard,” Stiles murmurs, throwing the nearest clean shirt he can find on the floor over his head. He supposes he can text Scott and ask him if he can pick him up, but he's still going to let himself be a little bitter over Peter's vanishing act.

Then again, maybe this is too much of a boyfriend task. Maybe taking care of Stiles’ idiotic head injury and driving him home was where Peter drew the line, and maybe that's a good thing, because Stiles is a damn grown-up after all, and their—their _thing_ doesn't involve looking after each other the morning after an embarrassing run-in with a tug-o-war rope. And his head is much clearer now, and the throbbing has diminished significantly, so it’s fine.

When he walks into the kitchen, he sees that Peter actually hasn't left at all, but is instead standing next to the coffeemaker while he waits for the bubbling pot to fill up and prepares a few pieces of toast, wearing nothing but his underwear and hair totally product-free, looking so much like a human who's just buttering a slice of bread and getting ready for work that Stiles—Stiles—

"Morning," Peter says when he notices Stiles in the doorway. "I didn't hear you get up."

"My alarm went off," Stiles explains, but he's elsewhere, he's mentally somewhere entirely different. He can't look away, he just can't stop taking in every detail of Peter standing nearly naked and still slightly sleepy in his kitchen, realizing with a nauseating swoop in his stomach that he likes what he's seeing, that he wants to keep seeing it, that looking at Peter walking around all domestic-like in the dim light of the morning is making him wish for this to keep going on always, for Peter to be here with him forever.

God. This is terrible. This is exactly the opposite of the casual sex they had both agreed to months ago. He’s been trying his best to fight it, to smother any attempts of feelings his body was presenting to him like one might stomp out a burning cigarette, but that’s all apparently been futile, because now Stiles’ emotions have hit him like a brick to the face and refuse to be ignored any longer. This is Stiles' life once again throwing him into the trash and letting him stew with all the garbage.

"Coffee?" Peter offers.

"I. Uh. No," Stiles says, even though he really does need his coffee. He just can't be standing here with Peter right now letting his brain picture their life together for the next few decades. He has to do something else.

The only thing he can think of to do right here—stupidly enough—is push away from the doorway and grab Peter by the hair and kiss him, kiss him as urgently and demandingly as possible, kiss him without any of the sweetness his mind was just swimming in.

It works, at least as far as a distraction goes. He pulls Peter close until Stiles is wedged between his body and the kitchen counter, mouth hungry against Peter's quick to respond lips and all thoughts of domesticity shoved aside in favor of hormones and the idea of early morning sex.

"Stiles," Peter says against his mouth, sliding his palm over Stiles' waist. "We have to go to work."

"We have time," Stiles says. "Right?" He looks over Peter's shoulder at the time on the microwave. Yeah. They have a little bit of time if they jetpack through traffic and skip morning hygiene routines. "C'mon, I want you."

Peter chuckles. "That badly?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. He slips his hands down to grope Peter's ass, squeezing through his briefs. He just needs to remind himself of what they are, what they’re _supposed_ to be: unabashed fuck buddies. "We can be quick."

Peter seems to be doing calculations in his head as far as time goes, but it doesn't take very long for him to concede and give in, drawing Stiles' bottom lip into his mouth while he pushes his sleep tee up his chest. 

"And your head," he murmurs, coasting his hand over Stiles' abdomen, the side of his torso, his left nipple. "That's all good now, is it?"

"It hurts like a bitch," Stiles says. "How bad does it look?"

"Not as swollen as yesterday," Peter says. "But much more purple."

"Well, you win some, you lose some," Stiles says, shrugging his shoulders and looping his arms around Peter's neck. "Come on. I'm good to go. It's not—not like my penis was the bit that took the hit."

He grinds his hips forward to prove his point, encountering Peter's erection as he does so. 

"You win," Peter says, pushing Stiles' underwear down his legs.

"Oh, come on, I think we both win," Stiles says, stifling a moan when Peter doesn't bother beating around the bush and finds his entrance with his fingers, thumb rubbing over the muscle. He could curse himself right now for not having lube and condoms at the ready in the kitchen, because for god's sake, they should really be in every room of the apartment.

"We can't be slow and sweet," Peter says onto his ear, biting down on the lobe.

"Yeah, yeah, I know—hurry the fuck up," Stiles says, nodding, turning around in Peter's grip and leaning over the kitchen counter. "Get the stuff."

Peter makes a noise—something between frustration and extreme arousal, from the sound of it—and bites down on the soft skin between Stiles' shoulder blades before following instructions and heading to Stiles' bedroom. He's only gone for a moment, but it might as well be centuries, Stiles horribly impatient where he's waiting with his elbows pressed against the cool countertop.

In a matter of seconds, Peter's fingers are back where they were a moment ago, except this time they're slick and cool with lube, sliding into Stiles with one smooth push that pulls a full-body shiver out of him. Peter holds his cheeks open with his free hand, presumably to watch his fingers fuck him, throwing all thoughts about time and being late to work completely out of Stiles' mind and zeroing him in on nothing but this, how good it feels and how desperate Stiles is to get Peter's dick inside him again.

"C'mon," Stiles whines, pressing his forehead against the counter. "Fuck me already. I wanted you inside me hours ago."

"The more you complain, the slower I'll go," Peter warns, and true enough, his fingers go from harsh and quick to firm and deliberate.

Stiles snaps his head over his shoulder to frown at him. "I thought you said we couldn't do slow and sweet."

"Well." Peter shrugs. "We all have to indulge in ourselves now and again."

"Dear god, I hate you," Stiles says, and of course that's when Peter pulls his fingers out and replaces it with the head of his cock, pushing in just barely, ripping a moan out of Stiles that has him clenching around Peter, desperate to draw him in more. “Come on.”

“Patience,” Peter says, pulling back out.

“Fuck that,” Stiles says. “Fuck _me_.”

Peter seems to be endeared by his inability to wait, chuckling, and he takes mercy and pushes back in, filling Stiles up just right. It’s always good with Peter, always, and Stiles doesn’t know how that works, how they’ve never even had an awkward period where they had to learn each other’s bodies. Is it always supposed to be this fucking perfect? Peter's hands manhandle Stiles around, maneuvering his back into place to push into him faster, better, and Stiles groans at the change of rhythm. Something about the angle he's bent over the countertop with, it's almost maddening. Peter is hitting his prostrate every time, dead on, the curve of Stiles' back just right, and if this goes on, he won't even need his cock to be touched. He groans, hands slippery on the counter he’s trying to get a grip on, Peter’s cock relentless inside him.

This is perfect. This is just what Stiles needs to remind himself that this is all they are, that this is the extent of their intimacy. Just some cold, hard fucks whenever they please, just like this now, which is pretty damn amazing, so why is Stiles so intent on screwing it all up? He can't. He shouldn't.

“Sound so good like this,” Peter praises, hand coming down in a quick slap on Stiles’ ass. “Perfect. You're perfect.”

Stiles moans, the noise raw in his throat. If he listens, he can hear Peter making the same sounds, the same grunts and groans, to say nothing of the sounds of skin slapping skin, of slick contact and a smooth rhythm. It's dizzying how enticing that is. Stiles juts his hips out and tries to push his ass back into the force of Peter's thrusts, needy for more.

“You think you can come untouched?” Peter asks, voice ragged. His hand squeezes the back of Stiles’ thigh, then the curve of his ass, fingers rough. “Think you can make it there without me touching your cock?”

“If you keep talking like that,” Stiles says, “then yeah.”

He means it. Peter's voice alone could get him to orgasm, how jagged and coarse it gets, how breathless and clearly _affected_ he always is when he fucks Stiles, so of course Stiles can come without a hand on his dick. Peter inside him is more than enough stimulation when combined with his hot hands and his dirty words, and Stiles makes that clear by clenching around him and dropping his forehead onto the countertop.

“Feeling me inside you, that's enough?” Peter asks—growls, really. “You love having my cock deep in your ass?”

Stiles nods, unable to do little more than whine his agreement. This is what they're good at, what they're meant for: cheap, easy, uncomplicated, deliciously dirty sex. No questions asked. No weird feelings. No getting dangerously attached.

“Want me to fuck you hard enough that you come right here, make a mess?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles begs. He can feel Peter's hands pulling apart his ass cheeks to watch himself slide in and out of Stiles’ hole again, fingers reverent where they're gripping Stiles open, and Stiles can hardly hold on anymore, not when Peter's cock is only getting more and more frantic inside him, tugging him straight to the edge. He lets Peter push and pull him around as he pleases, manhandle around on his cock, clenching down on him each time he pushes in and relishing in Peter’s resulting moans.

It’s not going to last long. Even without the threat of time constraints looming over them, both of them are enjoying this too much to draw this out. Stiles can already feel himself tingling, can feel his thighs trembling, and knows that Peter is at the same stage when the snaps of his hips get jerkier.

He knows when Peter finishes; even without the heat pulsing inside him, he can tell from Peter's noises alone, the way his body moves when he's on the edge. His grunts get deeper, wilder, his movements faster, harder, his hands rough and sharp on Stiles’ skin. It usually spirals Stiles off too, typically too teased and stimulated to last much longer at that point, but sometimes when he hasn't come yet, Peter will pull out and immediately sink to his knees and swallow down Stiles’ cock or eat out his sore ass or use his fingers where his mouth isn't, and then he's gone in _seconds_. Just thinking about it has Stiles coming—all over the counter drawer, too, which will be a bitch to clean up later—and seizing up around Peter's dick, desperate to keep him inside just a few glorious moments longer. He just fits well inside Stiles, and he feels right, and holy fucking shitballs if that isn't a horror story wrapped up in an idle thought right there.

“You all right?” Peter asks once his thrusts slow down, hand stroking down Stiles’ back, and right. Surroundings. Reality. A world outside of his star-ridden orgasm.

“Shit,” Stiles says, leaning his cheek against the cool counter. He can feel his heartbeat thump against it, racing as he feels his orgasm settle down. He lets his breathing calm, and when he lifts his head, he sees the clock on the wall and— “Shit!” he says again. “We’re way late. Way, way, way late. Holy shit.”

He spins around, the afterglow losing priority as he realizes just how little time he has to get dressed and beat the traffic now. He had actually kind of hoped that they could leave early so that the parking garage would be emptier and they would have a lesser chance of being seen driving in together by nosy coworkers, but now that wish has been blown out the wazoo by urgency and real life.

“Fuck!” Stiles shouts, and it's like the spell is broken and Stiles’ head starts throbbing again and he's very aware of the fact that he's late and hasn't even brushed his teeth yet, and he nearly trips over himself running back into his bedroom and seizing the closest, cleanest clothing he can find sprawled over the floor. If he has to have wild sex with Peter each time a strong emotion tickles him, he might be running short on time more often in the future.

He fumbles his way into his pants while he sticks his toothbrush into his mouth and tries to find a way to multitask both oral hygiene and getting dressed. He spits out into the sink and throws his shirt over his head and sprints right back out to the kitchen where Peter is waiting by the door, annoyingly prepared while Stiles is running around like a headless hen, and why the fuck didn't he wake him up sooner, the bastard?

Or, alternatively, why did Stiles think _right now_ was the best time for sex?

“Nice sex hair,” Peter says from by the door, where he's standing with his briefcase already slung over his shoulder and a plate of toast in his hand.

“Fuck,” Stiles says again, licking his hands and trying to smooth it down with his fingers. “How the hell did you convince me this was a good idea?”

“I believe you're the one who ambushed me for sex.”

“No, no that,” Stiles says, fumbling to slip his shoes on. “ _This_. You and me. This entire thing. I must've been off my damn rocker.”

Stiles knows that Peter's smiling without having to look up from his shoelaces and check. He plays with the car keys, jingling them around, clearly amused.

“It didn't take much convincing, that's for sure,” Peter says. “Are you nearly done?”

It looks a bit like a kindergartner tied his shoelaces and a blind man picked out his outfit, but he's done, he's ready. He gets to his feet and tugs on Peter's wrist, not quite ready to look him in the eye yet. That revelation from before is still burning under his skin like a rash, itchy and prickly and very rugburn-like, and he might need to get some fresh air and clear his head of all these thoughts before he looks at Peter's face again.

“Let's go,” he says, not meeting Peter's gaze.

\--

Stiles spends the ride to work—although really _ride_ is a bit of underwhelming word compared to the racecar speeding Peter does in order to make up for the time they lost fucking in the kitchen—fixing his sex hair in the visor mirror and hoping that no one sees them carpool to work together.

Naturally, this is a ridiculous wish, and when Peter pulls into the parking lot, half the company seems to be milling around taking their sweet time actually heading for the building. Stiles searches the glove compartment for humongous sunglasses or large scarves or other props celebrities use to escape the paparazzi and comes up empty.

"My god, this is embarrassing," Stiles groans, considering hiding in the foot room until Peter leaves, after which he'll follow after a safe five minute berth. "Okay, how's this—I head out and run inside and you give me a bit of a headstart."

His plan is interrupted by Isaac's knuckles rapping on the car window, his leering grin spooking the hell out of Stiles.

"This looks cozy," Isaac says through the glass. "Everybody got their pants on in there?"

Stiles shoves the door open—Isaac unfortunately steps out of the way before it can hit him in the nose—and runs a hand through his hair for the zillionth time just in case it still looks like evidence pointing to their early morning woohoo.

"Shut up," Stiles says. 

Isaac then takes his sunglasses off, which prompts him to cringe instantaneously as he gets a good look at Stiles’ face. "Nice shiner," Isaac says. "How does the other guy look?"

"Funny," Stiles says, slamming the door shut. "If anybody asks, me and Peter rode in different cars.” At Isaac’s snort of derision, Stiles worries a little bit. “Fuck. Does everybody already know? Do they know he drove me last night?”

“No one knows a thing, you idiot,” Isaac says, ruffling Stiles’ hair like the asshole he is. “You wouldn’t know how to act casual if your life depended on it.”

“My head’s fine, by the way,” Stiles says. “Thanks for all the concern.”

“Oh, did you need me to bring a stretcher to carry you indoors?”

“Shut up,” Stiles says, again. “Don't be an asshole.”

Peter strolls over to them, locking the car. “Isaac,” he says pleasantly. “Good to see you.” He turns to Stiles. “What are you waiting for? Crutches?”

“I hate both of you,” Stiles says. “I'm waiting for you to go inside without me so it doesn't look like we came together, asshole.”

Peter rolls his eyes, even though this is the opposite of an eye-rolling moment. Driving together means spending the night together and spending the night together means sharing a bed and sharing a bed means probably sharing other things and next thing Stiles knows, all of his coworkers have drawn all the dots together and his sordid affair with Peter is put on blast in the next company newsletter.

“You're acting crabbier than usual,” Isaac observes as Peter walks away. He raises an eyebrow. “Didn't get any this morning or what?”

“None of your business,” Stiles says, neck getting hot. Isaac is annoyingly perceptive; he feels like if he so much as watches Peter go then Isaac will have figured him and all his grumpiness out in a heartbeat. “Can we please talk about something else?”

“So no sex last night either?”

For god’s sake, Stiles is perfectly fine on that front. He's practically brimming over with sex; the issue is that he apparently can't separate orgasms from emotions because his heart is convinced his life is a rom-com and he's somehow on the brink of ruining everything. He starts walking to the building once Peter vanishes inside, and Isaac follows along.

“Something else,” Stiles insists again. “As in, in a totally different ballpark. As in, in a different dimension of topics to talk about.”

“Peter finally told you that you're really bad in bed,” Isaac continues, the son of a bitch. “We all figured.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. “I'm going to throttle you.” He yanks the door open, slipping inside and not bothering to hold it open for Isaac. “Has it occurred to you that I'm crabby because I got punched in the face yesterday?”

“By your own fist,” Isaac points out.

“Yes, yes, fucking _hilarious_ ,” Stiles says. “My head is aching and I didn't get a chance to grab painkillers this morning and I'm—” Stressed. Worried. Overwhelmed with the idea of really liking the way Peter looked standing in his kitchen by his toaster like he belonged there. “—super hungry because I didn't have time for breakfast.”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh.” Isaac whistles like he's impressed by just how crotchety Stiles is. Stiles has the right; yesterday he clobbered himself during tug-o-war and today he fell down a feelings rabbithole that isn't doing any wonders for his sanity, so he's pretty sure he gets to be irritable. “You'd think someone getting laid on a regular basis wouldn't be so sullen all the time.”

Yeah, Stiles used to think that too. And then he met Peter and everything just kind of went to shit.

He should've seen that one coming.

\--

**Peter @ 6:02pm:** _Found out there's a jazz club about forty or so minutes away from us. What say you?_

Stiles is in the middle of texting back _yeah, sure_ when he stops halfway through, stares down at his phone, and deletes everything. They've been doing this too much. He knows they have. The paint night, the evenings spent together at bars, the drive-in movies. The shopping for sheets together. The _dates_.

The moment Stiles had that morning in the kitchen when he was watching Peter make him breakfast half-naked that he refuses to ever acknowledge again, ever.

He can't let this become more than sex. He's already toed the line, and Peter's even the one who was sure he couldn't handle their relationship, that he wasn't cut out for keeping shit like this casual, and he can't let himself stumble into emotions that are strictly banned from this arrangement. It's a pretty fucking awesome arrangement and Stiles doesn't want to screw it all up, and so he can't take any more chances. He already made a promise to himself to not visit Peter in his office so much during the day for blowjobs and prank calls and eating lunch together, because it’s just getting too fucking hard, and he can’t completely renege on that promise by now hanging out with Peter in the evening instead to make up for that lost time.

Not that he's worried that he'll fall in love with Peter if he keeps seeing more of him than just his gloriously naked body. He just… doesn't want to tempt fate, poke a sleeping bear, provoke danger, etc, etc.

He knows his limits. And he just needs to start heeding them.

**Stiles @ 6:09pm:** _Sorry, head still hurts like a bitch_

**Stiles @ 6:10pm:** _Take someone else maybe?_

He sends the second one without wanting to, but knowing he should. His thumb even twitches a little when he goes to press send, because all he can think about is Peter looking through his black book and taking someone gorgeous and brilliant who can actually dance to jazz music and it's making his brain spin a little, but that spinning head is the very reason he can't keep feeding into this. Maybe Peter can handle all the romantic evenings and paint night and sexting and introducing family members and jazz clubs and cuddling in bed when they really shouldn't even be sleeping over, but all this is too fucking much for Stiles. He just needs a break, a chance to breathe.

He keeps his phone in his hand, unwilling to put it down, even as he dreads the response he might get from Peter. It's good that he's not going. It's important that he stays here. He can't keep laughing with Peter at drive-ins and getting nervous about what his nephew might think of him and start taking any of this seriously, so until he can learn to do that, he'll just… stay here, at home, decompressing.

So he turns his phone off, doesn't think about what Peter might text back with, and tries to do something—anything—other than think about Peter in this apartment with him, curled up on the couch next to Stiles, leaving his hair products in the bathroom, making them breakfast every morning.

\--

Stiles has been falling horribly behind at work. It's been hard for him to ditch all his social media habits, so he just hasn't, and all the two thousand additional emails he gets now that he's spearheading projects and managing campaigns and playing in the big boy league are piling up in his inbox like a mountain of incoming pain.

As annoying as it is, especially when he stays late at work to catch up, it ends up working in Stiles’ favor. It gives him an excuse just in case Peter tries to rope him into another date (or date-like event), which Stiles could really rely on these days. It's like every other evening, Peter suggests that they go out or grab dinner or have sex somewhere new and exciting like a changing booth at the mall, and it's getting harder and harder for Stiles to dodge him with plausible reasons. He just needs to detox from Peter a little bit. Remember what it was like to hate him.

Staying after hours becomes Stiles’ foolproof plan. He gets work done and he manages to avoid Peter and even if all of this is starting to give him a stress-induced coronary, at least he's not spiraling into panic attacks each time he thinks about how Peter looks sleeping in bed next to him, mostly because he doesn't have the time to indulge in any of those unhelpful thoughts.

“Do you need coffee or something?” Boyd from payroll asks him as six o’clock hits and he walks by Stiles’ desk, the only desk still occupied on the whole third floor. Everybody else dashed out of here at five with the exception of a few stragglers, but now the stragglers are leaving too, leaving just Stiles and an office building gone dark and empty.

“I'm fine,” Stiles tells him. “Just working on a big project.”

“All right. Good luck, man.”

He waves goodbye to Stiles and there he goes, leaving Stiles feeling very alone on a very big floor. It almost feels like walking around a high school at night, the entire floor completely void of sounds it typically has running through it all day long, from tapping keyboards to ringing phones to scratching pens to idle chatter. Stiles stands up for a moment to stretch his legs, body feeling incredibly stiff, and gets a peek over the cubicle wall. It looks unbelievably quiet here. All the desks he can catch a glimpse of are empty, the floor like a ghost town, and Stiles would so happily leave if he didn't have so much to do and so many people to prove to that he can do it all. That little sexting incident during Stiles’ meeting probably sent the wrong impression to everyone that Stiles is scatter-brained and perpetually slow on the uptake and not worthy of his promotion, and he can't let that sort of thing happen again, not when he _knows_ that he can do this. That he's good enough for this and not just because he slept his way up the corporate ladder.

Stiles sits back down. His chair is a little creaky. He's never noticed during the day with all the other millions of sounds surrounding him, but here in the silence, he hears it.

He shouldn't focus in on it. He should be concentrating on his work, not anything else. Not the squeaky chair, not the eerie atmosphere of an after-hours workplace, and not how boring this project really is. He has to stay alert.

Maybe he'll get himself some coffee. Or maybe he'll just tune out everything else and promise himself that he'll get actual work done and won't just be thinking about what Peter's doing tonight, if he's beginning to catch on that Stiles is avoiding him, if he's starting to already turn to other people to bring to drive-ins and send lacrosse articles to in the dead of night.

He can't think about that. He has to completely box Peter out of his mind. He has to.

\--

Someone shaking him by the shoulder pulls him awake, and it's then that Stiles realizes he was sleeping. Sleeping on his desk, half on his keyboard, like one of those overworked cubicle monkeys who burns the candle at both ends. God, who the hell is he?

Right, the shaking. Stiles opens his eyes and sees, blurrily, Peter's face. He's sitting on the edge of Stiles' desk looking oddly endeared by Stiles' position, hand sliding to the back of his neck. It's a warm touch, one that would lull Stiles back to sleep if he was spread out on a bed instead of arched over his desk. He lifts his head, rubbing at his cheek, numb where the keyboard was pressing in. There are probably imprints of it on Stiles' face and he must look like a sleepy toddler, which is admittedly not the look he's going for in front of Peter.

"You know, if you needed someplace to sleep," Peter teases.

"Not that," Stiles says, stretching out his arms. "I lost track of time. Finstock gave me this project to work on and it has a deadline and I'm hardly keeping up with it as it is." He turns up to look at his computer, realizing it's fallen into hibernation mode. "Shit. I should probably keep working on it."

"No," Peter says, squeezing the nape of Stiles' neck. "You were just sleeping on the space bar."

"I know," Stiles says. He rubs his knuckles over his eyes. “This promotion you got me sucks ass, you know that?”

“Of course. The higher salary must be awful.”

“It comes at such a high cost,” Stiles mutters. “I'm meant for busy work.”

Peter's thumb slides over the hair before Stiles’ ear. “You're not.”

Stiles huffs, sparing a glance at Peter, who’s looking at him almost—almost _softly_ , borderline fondly, and Stiles feels a weird, tight spike in his stomach start to splinter outward with an emotion he’d rather not identify. He’s been doing such a splendid job of avoiding Peter, and now that he’s looking him in the face again, he feels like a junkie getting a taste of their favorite substance. He wonders if Peter’s noticed the hiatus Stiles has been taking from him.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

"Relax," Peter says, hands moving to Stiles' shoulders and rubbing slowly, methodically. His thumbs dig in just right and _oh yes there_. "Your work will be trash if you work while you're exhausted."

"Excuse me," Stiles interjects, not sure if he was just insulted or not, but still feeling slightly stung. "My work is never trash. It's gold, all gold."

"Mm," Peter says, not disagreeing, which feels like a victory in of itself, and then he arches over and leans down to kiss Stiles, tongue brushing over his lips. It's the kind of kiss you want to wake up to, even when you're waking up on top of a keyboard, and Stiles melts into it until—

"Wait," he says, pushing at Peter's chest. "We're at work, doofus."

"It's late," Peter says, then dips in for another kiss, this one managing to pull down Stiles' reservations. He lets out a soft sound, skin heating up, and cups the back of Peter's head, suddenly very much wrapped up in this, this moment, this feeling, this riskiness.

Right up until the sound of a heavy thud and a proceeding _oh_ rips Stiles away from the tranquility, and the next thing he knows, he's staring at a red-faced Greenberg and the dropped binder at his feet, eyes wide and mouth open.

And Peter's hands are still on Stiles, and Stiles' mouth is still pink from Peter's teeth, and all of this is still so very incriminating that Stiles doesn't think there's any point in helplessly backtracking now. He feels a layer of ice settle over his skin that hardens into one massive, unsettling glacier chilling his insides, and tries to think of something, anything, to say here.

"Sorry," Greenberg says, picking up the dropped binder. "I didn't know anyone else was still here."

"I was working late," Stiles says, finding his voice, but unfortunately not any believable excuses to present. He used to be so good at this, at pulling bullshit out of his ass when his dad would ask if he was out past curfew or if his teachers would ask why he was so late turning in his assignment, but right now, that block of ice in his stomach seems to have frozen his brain as well. 

"Okay. Um." Greenberg points vaguely off into the distance, cheeks a little shiny where sweat seems to be gathering. "I'm headed over—yeah. Bye."

Dear god, this is a disaster and Stiles is letting it spin off into one. He opens and closes his mouth like a helpless fish, the words he’s looking for not coming to his brain even though he’s fully aware that if he wants to put a pin in this situation—which he really absolutely totally has to—he has to take action. He springs to his feet, shooting one last panic-filled look in Peter’s direction before hurrying after Greenberg.

He catches him a few cubicles down. "Hey," he says, doing his best to sound nonchalant, breezy, totally unaffected by this turn of events. He should've let Peter do this. "Hey, Greenberg. Wait up a second.

Stiles grabs his shoulder in what he hopes comes across as a friendly, coworkerly show of manners, squeezing. Greenberg turns around, still inordinately pink around the face.

"What you saw back there—it isn't anything worth telling people about, okay?" Stiles says. "Me and him—it's nothing. It’s not a real thing."

Greenberg's blank expression isn't really giving Stiles much to work with here.

"Really nothing. So you don't—you don't have to tell anyone, yeah?"

“Sure,” Greenberg says. He looks extremely unsure of what to say here, much like a child caught accidentally digging up a grave in a schoolyard, and also like he’s half-expecting Stiles to knock him unconscious with a printer if he doesn’t comply with Stiles’ requests. “So you and Peter—”

“No,” Stiles says instantly. No, no, no, he’s not letting this go there. “There is no me and Peter. Absolutely not. Okay?”

“Sure,” Greenberg says again. Stiles wishes he sounded even _slightly_ more convinced.

“So, uh. Good talk, right?” Stiles says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “See you later.”

He stands there, tingling with nervous adrenaline, long after Greenberg walks away, wondering if this was a stroke of good luck, bad luck, or a little bit of both. The future will make it clear, Stiles thinks, which settles in his belly a little like a ransom note in his mailbox would.

He can't worry about it too much. He did what he could and no thanks to Peter, at that, who was apparently too busy grooming himself or checking his foodie Instagram pages or polishing his shoes to come lend Stiles a hand here with Greenberg when his persuasive charisma would've actually been useful. Whatever, Stiles handled it himself.

He walks back to his desk when his limbs start solidifying again. “Okay, crisis averted,” Stiles says, trying to remember exactly how to properly put oxygen into his lungs, but when he rounds the corner into his cubicle, it’s empty and Peter’s gone. “Uh, Peter?”

He looks around just to make sure Peter isn’t lurking around the corner, but he isn’t. He’s nowhere to be seen, and apparently that bit about Stiles imagining him polishing his shoes was wildly optimistic, as he seems to have entirely fled the scene instead. 

“Seriously?” he says aloud. No one answers.

\--

Stiles gets very little sleep that night. Working late is only partly to blame for cutting into his slumber time here, because for the most part, it was Stiles’ brain keeping him awake, whirring on and on like a rapid machine, swept up in worst case scenarios of what Greenberg might do with this newfound, scandalous information he’s stumbled upon, all of them as grisly as the next. He just can’t stop beating himself up, chastising himself for being so careless, for being so irresponsible, for being so lackadaisical with his hormones and with Peter and with their surroundings. Making out at work? Right there, in the open? Seriously, had he gone completely brainless?

His dark under-eye circles are of no surprise to him the next morning when he drags himself out of bed after fitfully dozing for a few hours at best. He can’t very well complain. His face is the face of a man dealing with his consequences. And also a very demanding advertising campaign, but the other part is the bit Stiles is focusing on. He’s just glad the bruise from his self-inflicted punch has faded.

He doesn’t shy away from the coffee machine once he makes it to work. Caffeine is his only savior right now, and if there’s one thing Peter hasn’t budgeted to hell and back in this place, it’s the coffee, thank the fucking heavens. He goes to pour himself a cup, downs it, and immediately refills it. What the hell is he going to say if he sees Greenberg today? What is he going to do about that overwhelming urge to bribe him into silence just in case he’s tempted to spill the beans?

"Hey," Stiles hears from behind himself. He looks over his shoulder and there's Jordan from security, waving hello, looking for his own caffeine fix. "How's it going?"

"Can't complain," Stiles says, because if Jordan wanted an honest answer, Stiles might have a breakdown right here and now. He caps his cup to take back to his desk with him. "You?"

"Same. How's your head?"

"My head?"

"Yeah." Jordan points to his forehead, grinning. "We all saw you take quite a hit during the tug-o-war."

"Oh. _Oh_." Stiles touches his head, seeing if he can still feel the bump under his hair. Thankfully, it seems to have gone down. "It's all good now. Except for maybe the crippling amnesia that comes and goes. Other than that, my head's fine."

"You're funny," Jordan says. 

"Mind telling my friends that?"

Jordan smiles, and he really has a nice smile, one that's pretty infectious, but then someone's loudly clearing their throat and when Stiles turns around to look and see exactly who it is that’s bothered by some friendly small talk between colleagues, he sees that it's—

"Peter," Stiles says.

"Don't mind me, gentlemen," Peter says. He sounds uncharacteristically clipped, lips thinned into one straight line. He looks at Jordan, then Stiles, then Jordan again for another moment, and his lips somehow manage to get thinner still. "Just looking to get to the napkins."

He squeezes between the two of them when he really could’ve just walked around, busying himself with the napkins longer than it should take someone to pick a few up and move along.

Jordan sneaks a glance at Stiles. He can only hope that Jordan isn't coming to the conclusion that there's some kind of lover’s quarrel going on between Peter and Stiles, because Stiles doesn't think he could handle single-handedly covering up their relationship to coworkers twice in twenty-four-hours.

“Um,” Jordan says. “I should get back to work.”

Stiles watches him go, cringing at the endless possibilities of him misinterpreting Peter's strangely jealous entrance to their conversation just now, then steps closer to where Peter is still fiddling with the napkins.

"Hey," Stiles says quietly, tapping Peter between the shoulder blades. "You okay? You just kind of disappeared last night."

"I went home," Peter says, not looking up from the napkins. “It was late.”

“Yeah, but—” Stiles frowns. “Are you all right?”

“Of course.”

“Really? Cause you seem super pissed at me.”

“I have to get back to work,” Peter says. “You should get back to chatting up the security staff.”

Okay, _what_? Seriously, what? Peter goes to walk away, but Stiles hardly thinks that’s an end to that conversation, so he seizes Peter’s elbow and pulls him back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Peter looks at him, and he’s either doing a horrible job of hiding his annoyance, or he very purposefully wants Stiles to know just how irritated he is right now. “Exactly what it sounds like,” Peter says. “Not that it matters. I made it clear to you ages ago that we can see other people.”

Stiles lets go of Peter’s elbow immediately; he has no clue why, but that upsets him more than it should. He shouldn’t be mad—after all, these are terms he agreed to most happily a while ago, terms that didn’t bother him because at the time, the idea of Peter as anything other than a fuck buddy was pretty abhorrent. And come on, it’s not like that’s changed. Stiles doesn’t want him for anything else. This is what he wanted since the beginning, and has been reinforced by his Peter Hiatus. If he says it enough, he can persuade himself.

So why is he so fucking mad right now?

“You do remember that, don’t you?” Peter says.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course I do,” Stiles says. It feels like someone’s put a rod through his spine, that’s how stiff he suddenly feels. He takes a step back. “Yeah, okay, good. Great.”

“Great,” Peter says too.

“Great,” Stiles says for the third, last time, and watches him leave.

\--

Stiles stews in that “chatting up the security staff” comment for the next fifteen minutes while he burns his tongue drinking his coffee too soon, too distracted by Peter’s passive-aggressive crankiness to check the temperature first.

God. First disappearing on him yesterday and then getting unnecessarily shirty with him all because he’s talking to his coworkers—either Stiles said something _horrible_ in his sleep that Peter happened to overhear or Peter’s projecting some of his own personal shit onto Stiles for the hell of it. Either way, Stiles doesn’t appreciate the way he’s handling it, but if he has to be the big person again—when doesn’t he when it comes to Peter—then fine, he will.

Unless. Unless he somehow found out that Stiles is starting to get a little invested in this?

No. No, there’s no fucking way he’d know. Stiles hasn’t told a soul. Hell, he’s hardly even admitted it to himself. Peter can’t possibly know a thing.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and starts drafting a text, deciding a simple _you want to tell me what’s going on with you?_ will suffice, but halfway through tapping it out an email pops up in his inbox. Stiles opens it.

**From:** Bobby Finstock  
 **To:** Stiles  
 **CC:** Peter  
 **Subject:** breach of rules

_My office, 12pm_

Shit. Holy shit.

First, Stiles has trouble breathing. Then, after the immediate danger of fainting passes, he pushes himself away from his desk and stomps down the hallway until he comes to one very specific cubicle.

"What the fuck, Greenberg?" Stiles spits out, hands already sweating. "Did you seriously tell someone about—" He stops, clears his throat, lowers his voice a few notes. "—what you saw last night?"

Greenberg looks more than alarmed by Stiles' sudden outrage. He has one of those ridiculous motivational cat posters hanging up that only makes Stiles hate him more, which is quite an accomplishment, because he's pretty much frothing with hate right now. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. How on earth could news have traveled this fast?

"What—what do you mean?" Greenberg asks.

"Who did you tell?" Stiles asks, leaning in closer. "Jackson? You told Jackson, didn't you?"

"I didn't tell Jackson," Greenberg says.

"So you told _Finstock?_ "

"No!" His voice gets a bit smaller. "I just told Danny and Jackson happened to overhear me."

Ah. And there’s that sinking feeling in Stiles’ gut that makes him feel like he’s dying a slow death. "You. You what? _You what?_ "

"I didn't know he was there!" Greenberg says. “I didn’t think it would hurt to tell Danny!”

"Why were you telling anyone at all?!"

“It just came out!” He looks nervous now, officially catching on to Stiles’ frenzied, angry fear. What exactly did he think, that Stiles would be happy about his gossipmongering? That the walls didn’t have ears around here? Stiles spends _months_ ducking underneath stairwells and having nightmares about forgetting to lock doors and the entire third floor walking in on him naked, and after all of that, it just takes one careless idiot to send all that work down the drain. “Is it bad? What happened?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking bad,” Stiles says. “I have an email sitting in my inbox from Finstock pretty much waiting to roast my ass and I don’t think it’s about me stealing paperclips.”

Greenberg’s eyes widen. “Are you getting fired?”

“I don’t fucking know, Greenberg! If I do, I know whose fault it is!”

His heart is firing along so rapidly Stiles is starting to feel a little light-headed. How is this happening? How is _Greenberg_ the reason he’s about to be unemployed? How is that even _possible_?

Okay, so this is bad. There’s pretty much no salvaging this. Stiles is wracking his brain and not even years of bullshitting to his dad about why he was out after curfew or why his grades were cracking isn’t helping him out now. What is he supposed to say when there are witnesses telling stories of his tawdry inter-office relationship around the office? If he goes to Google for help, would there even be anything useful, or is this even out of Google’s range?

It’s 12:00pm before he can think up a good excuse. His palms are sweating and his forehead is hot and if he’s lucky, he’ll pass out before he reaches Finstock’s office, but despite his racing heartbeat, his body isn’t showing any signs of quitting on him. He just has to face this.

The walk to Finstock’s office feels a little bit like a trek into hell. By the time he’s face-to-face with the door, every bone in his body is begging him to turn around, not grab the handle, not deal with whatever’s on the other side. Is he even going to still have a job when he walks out later? Is Peter?

He can't draw it out forever. The only out Stiles sees right now is jogging to the parking lot and letting himself be gently run over by a car to postpone this meeting, but that would really just be delaying the inevitable while adding in some unnecessary physical pain, so it's probably best to just deal with all this headfirst. Rip off the bandaid, and all those other stupid as fuck sayings.

He opens the door.

“Stilinski! You made it. Spectacular,” Finstock says when he cracks it open. Peter's already there, seated in the left chair, which only makes the knot in Stiles’ gut swoop lower still.

“Uh, you wanted to see me?” Stiles says.

“Sure did. Close the door, would you?”

Stiles does so, feeling inexplicably like he’s locking himself into a coffin as he shuts it. He catches Peter’s eye for a second, but his expression isn’t giving much away, leaving Stiles feeling a little like he’s floating here in the abyss of incoming trouble all by himself. He wonders if Peter’s about to throw him under the bus, if that’s what’s about to happen here. Assuming Peter hasn’t already done it, which feels more than ever like a possibility. After all, Stiles has done nothing but purposefully dodge Peter this last week, to say nothing of that weird fight they had this morning over Jordan of all people.

Stiles sits down on the edge of the empty seat when Finstock points to it. He’s not smiling, and it’s deadly quiet, and Stiles just wants to go somewhere else where he won’t sweat through his clothes from the nerves of not knowing what’s coming next.

"All right," Finstock begins, hands threaded together on the desk. Stiles feels like he's in the fucking principal's office. "So. Word on the street is that you two use this place as your canoodling hideout at night."

Fuck.

"That is—that is _so not true_ ," Stiles says. His entire job is flashing before his eyes, including his salary, his financial stability, and his future. "He isn't—we're not—all that's wrong."

"Ease up, Stilinski," Finstock says, already looking annoyed. "Listen. I personally don't give a crap, but fact of the matter is, it's against company policy." He turns to Peter, sighing, and just like that— "So we're gonna have to let you go, Peter. Just can't have HR breathing down my neck like I'm running an inter-office orgy up here."

"Wait," Stiles says. "What?"

"Don't complain, Stilinski," Finstock says, pointing a stern finger at him. "We can just as easily let you go too if you want to be jobless and live in dumpsters for a while. Be my guest."

"No, but." Stiles tries to find his words, words that make sense, any words. "You can't just—you can't fire him just like that."

Finstock's eyebrows furrow close together. "Actually, I can. And I am. And this isn't a public forum. It's a decision that's been made, so your opinion is moot."

"But—"

"All right," Peter says, cutting off Stiles' stammering. "That's fine by me."

“What?”

“Wonderful!” Finstock says. “Saves me the trouble of having to call security to drag you out of here.”

“No, wait,” Stiles says, trying desperately to grab onto this situation and salvage it before all this spirals out of his grasp. “That’s not—there’s been a mistake here. We’re not—” Lovers? Boyfriends? Partners? Together? Stiles looks over at Peter, trying to catch his eye again to communicate wordlessly here about what to do next, because he’s drawing a bit of a blank. Peter’s giving him nothing. “There’s nothing between us.”

“Come on, Stilinski,” Finstock says. “The charade is over.” He puts his hand up to start counting all the ways this is true on his fingers. “We've got witnesses. We've got some very telling rumors. And we have copies of emails you two sent each other during business hours that kind of cinches the deal.”

Stiles closes his eyes. The fucking _emails_. Of course they monitor those. Stiles thinks he even distantly remembers being told that during orientation when he was first hired, how he was warned to keep his personal nonsense out of company emails because HR could scroll through them any time they damn well pleased.

Fuck. This is bad. This is pretty much unfixable.

“Shall I pull some of them up?” Finstock says, white hot panic coursing through Stiles at the very idea, because sure, but why stop there? Why not also post Stiles’ old prom pictures on the company website and send out an office-wide memo of Stiles’ short-lived Tinder profile and get this Stiles Stilinski Humiliation Show really going?

“That won't be necessary,” Peter says. “We disobeyed a rule, and that has consequences. It's all very understandable.”

No, no, no, how is this all tornadoing out of control so damn fast? And why is Peter taking this so well? And why isn't he throwing Stiles under the bus with him just to be the shithead Stiles fully expects him to be right now?

Peter gets to his feet. He extends his hand for Finstock to shake.

“It's been a pleasure,” he says. “Shame it had to end on a sour note.”

Stiles’ brain is still chanting _no_ on an endless loop. Peter's not done here yet. Peter can't leave yet. This can't be fucking happening.

It was never supposed to go like this. For years, Stiles loved this place because his friends were here too, because Scott was just a few cubicles away and Isaac always showed up for mid-afternoon chats to gripe about useless colleagues, and it's like somewhere along the way, Peter became a reason too. A reason to enjoy being here. A reason to want to work here, and nowhere else. Nowhere else had his people, _all_ his people.

And now Peter's leaving and it isn't even his choice and Stiles’ hands are shaking as he realizes just how deeply he stepped in it this time. He knew it from the beginning. He knew it'd end badly for at least one of them, that it would have shitty repercussions. If he was in an even slightly better headspace, he'd gloat about being right, but even that feels hollow right now, like the worst spoils in the world.

“All right,” Finstock says, sliding back into his chair. “That was icky, and now it's over. Back to work with you, Stilinski. We’ll be keeping an eye on you, but for now, consider yourself formally reprimanded.”

Stiles can't quite convince his legs to move. Something's keeping him in the chair, like he can't quite leave until he fixes this. He has to fix this.

“Sooner rather than later, if you would,” Finstock presses, lips thinning, shooing him out.

\--

Watching Peter pack up his desk is extremely uncomfortable. He just stands against the wall, wishing he could melt into it but also wishing he was the kind of person who was full of the right words to say in these situations, mostly just wondering if he should leave Peter alone. He's never seen Peter under these kind of circumstances, where the rug's been pulled out from under him and he's no longer at the head of the pack, and he needs the space to mourn, to mope, to brood. Maybe the last thing he wants is to have Stiles hovering around him.

"I'm sorry," Stiles ends up saying. He was mentally waffling between that and _are you okay_ , both being a little overused but nothing better coming to mind.

"Why exactly are you sorry?" Peter asks.

Stiles lifts a helpless hand. "Because you just got fired. Because you wouldn't have if I would've just kept hating you like I did when you first got here." He rubs his eyes, feeling a pressing headache coming on. "Because in some weird way I totally feel responsible for this."

"You are," Peter says, but he doesn't sound mad. "But I believe we share responsibility on this one."

He sounds so… unaffected. Flat. Which Stiles supposes might be his weird, emotionless way of dealing with this, but he has trouble believing that, because Peter _just got fired_. Is this Peter giving him the cold shoulder because of all this? Is this Peter totally repressing everything that’s happening right now?

"Why aren't you upset about this?" Stiles asks.

Peter puts a stapler into the box. "Stiles, I was always going to leave. It was just a matter of when. I just happen to be a few weeks ahead of schedule."

"I know, but," Stiles says. _But then you and I started. But then things changed. But I thought you might stay._ That headache is intensifying.

"It's not a problem," Peter says. He rounds his desk, taking a step closer to Stiles. "If you listen closely, you can practically hear the sounds of another business falling into insurmountable debt and requiring my help."

"Right. I mean, that's good," Stiles says, but none of it is feeling good. 

"You don't have to worry about me," Peter assures him. "I'm not worried.”

Yeah, that’s great, in the way it only makes Stiles feel worse about himself because he _is_ worried, or he’s at least going through a much bigger spectrum of emotions than Peter is right now. He’s guilty and upset and angry and also shaking just a little bit because this is _exactly_ what they were trying to avoid, and still they got caught, still it ended terribly, still it didn’t end with a clean break. Stiles doesn’t know if it ever could have, but now he’ll never get to find out, and he’s not even entirely sure how to properly deal with this situation, not to mention that the last conversation he and Peter had before all this was some ridiculous argument over seeing other people.

“This—your, uh. Apathy here,” Stiles says. “It doesn’t have anything to with—with what we talked about by the water fountain, right?”

“You mean our discussion about you going out with the security man?”

“Yeah.” Stiles feels like he should be saying more, maybe even apologizing, which is ridiculous, but maybe he should. “For the record, I’m not going out with—”

“Of course it doesn’t. And I’m hardly apathetic,” Peter says, interrupting. “I’m being realistic about the situation and moving on.”

He picks up the box of his things he’s just packed up. Stiles has worried about three million times how it would feel if he had to do this, to head to his desk and see all his stuff boxed up for him to grab on his way out, but now that he sees Peter going through it, he feels just as sick inside if it were himself. He doesn’t have the correct words at the ready to know what to say here. He’s already apologized; it still doesn’t feel like enough.

“Listen,” Stiles starts, but he falters, unsure of how to continue.

“It’s okay,” Peter says. He squeezes his shoulder for one quick second. “I knew perfectly well that it was going to happen this way.”

Stiles didn't. Stiles had totally different expectations for this relationship, even from the get-go when he was bringing Chinese takeout to a booty call. He doesn't know how he imagined this all playing out, but certainly not like this. Not with a huge blow-up and someone actually losing their job and everything coming to a screeching, horrible halt. Stiles had constantly feared this, the idea of being punished and fired for sleeping with a colleague, but he never expected it to actually _happen_ anywhere other than his paranoid worries, especially when Peter kept assuring him it wouldn’t.

“At least let me,” Stiles begins, then falters when he realizes he doesn't know what to offer here. “Let me help you carry your stuff out?”

“It’s one box,” Peter says. “Not a UHaul.”

“Yeah, but.” _But I just don't want to watch you go just yet_. “I'm sorry,” he says again. He feels like he can't say it enough right now. “Peter, I'm really sorry.”

“Your past self would be so very disappointed to hear you say that,” Peter says as he picks up the box. “He wanted me out as quickly as possible.”

_I'm not him anymore_ , Stiles thinks, because so much has changed. Everything has changed. His past self was fucking clueless.

“He was—I don't know. He was kind of a dick.”

Peter smirks, or at least delivers something that looks like the half-baked version of a smirk that's fallen a little flat. “Glad you see that now too,” he says. “Hindsight is 20/20, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. His throat feels horribly raw as Peter heads for the door. “It really is.”

\--

He’s feeling a little numb after he watches the elevator doors close on Peter and his box of belongings tucked under one arm. He’s torn in these contradictory directions, one side of himself glad that he’s not riding that elevator with him with his own things in tow and the other side feeling inexplicably like he now has the workforce version of survivor’s guilt crushing down on his head.

He shouldn’t have expected anything better out of Jackson. His mistake for thinking he’d have an ounce of human compassion buried somewhere in those spiteful bones, because of fucking course Jackson would do this.

Stupidly, ridiculously, Stiles decides to make things worse.

He storms across the office, angry and shaking and in the mood for some unprofessional aggression served hot, and he finds exactly what he’s looking for leaning over the printer, much too peacefully for Stiles’ liking.

“You humongous jackass,” Stiles says. He’s already been saved from termination once today, why not tempt fate and push harder. “Of course you would do this. Of fucking course you’d do this.”

Jackson turns around to look at him. “Nice temper tantrum there, Stilinski,” he says.

Not the right words, Stiles thinks, close to bubbling over here. He feels like a pot of water left on the stove too long, like any second he's going to spill out and make a mess, and Jackson clearly isn't encouraging the opposite.

“You just—you just had to be an asshole, didn’t you?” Stiles says, and the longer he looks at Jackson’s face, his stupid face, the angrier he gets. “More of an asshole than usual, and that’s saying something.”

A knowing smirk flits over Jackson’s face as he shuffles more paper into the printer. “Upset about something, Stilinski?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking upset about something, and you know exactly what!” Stiles yells. A passing intern stops to give them a look—slightly terrified, slightly intrigued—and Stiles remembers that they’re at work, and mauling a coworker in the middle of the office would probably be frowned upon. That carpet would take forever to be cleaned if Stiles accidentally drenched it in Jackson’s blood, so.

“Might want to watch yourself,” Jackson says, still calm as ever as he shuts the paper drawer. “I know you don’t have the most experience with acting professional in a work setting, but this isn’t it.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Stiles says. “Were you not hugged enough as a child?”

“All I did was report a total violation of company policy.”

“And how was that even remotely your business?”

Jackson smirks. “You see, Stilinski,” he says. “It gives me a special kind of joy to see you down and out. So in that regard, it was my business.”

Stiles is going to punch him. Stiles is going to sock him straight in the mouth and there’s no one even here to stop him. He’s going to do it. He’s just going to pounce.

“But you know what, I’m sure you can find another coworker to sleep with and get fired.” He leans in. “I’m sure there’s some people desperate enough on the fourth floor.”

“It wasn’t just some—some stupid office thing, you asshole, he was important to me! I lo—” Stiles stops, swallowing back the words on the edge of his tongue, his stomach rolling with unease. The more he talks, the more he makes Jackson’s day, and he’s really sick of seeing that satisfied smirk on Jackson’s face that he’d really love to wipe off with printer ink. He has to cool off. He has to do something other than enact his fantasy of kicking Jackson in his crown jewels. “Whatever.”

He walks away, feeling wound up and ready to blow and angrier than he’s been in a while. He’s never been one for a crazy temper, but right now all he can think about is smashing Jackson’s face straight into the printer until ink comes out his nose just so he can feel a little less horrible about everything.

\--

The guilt doesn't lessen as Stiles heads home. It seems to swell and push on him in the car, and it doesn't stop when he walks into his apartment and sees all the places Peter's been, the things Peter has touched. The piggy bank he condemned. The pots he would use to make breakfast.

Maybe he hasn't ruined everything yet, Stiles thinks, holding on to some desperate thread of hope. He's fucked everything up at work, but that doesn't mean that him and Peter have to be fucked up too—there are still so many things they talked about doing together. Didn't Peter want to go dancing? They could still go dancing. They could still paint each other and fool around with sex toys and play darts at the bar together. This doesn't have to end.

Maybe Peter agrees. Maybe he's already missing Stiles too. Maybe all that indifference from earlier wasn’t actually a sign that he really was that good at keeping this one hundred percent casual and didn’t care about Stiles in the least, because you don’t—you don’t do the things Peter did with him if you don’t care at least a tiny, microscopic bit.

He searches his apartment for twenty minutes looking for inspiration, for a reason to reach out to Peter. He finally finds his golden ticket in the form of a thick, deep green cardigan draped over the backrest of Stiles’ couch.

Peter would want this back. Peter loves this cardigan. It's cold outside and people need thick knitted cardigans when it's cold. It would be a complete disservice to not call Peter and tell him he left behind a piece of clothing very clearly mandatory for the winter season. It would be horribly rude for Stiles to not call him up and tell him he needs him.

Ah. Needs him _to pick up his cardigan_. The cardigan.

He flips his phone around in his hands for a good half an hour, figuring out how to word this as casually possible, and is eventually bolstered into finding Peter’s contact and pressing call once he has two and a half beers.

He has to make this right. He has to at least try and salvage this.

The phone rings, and rings. Maybe Peter won’t pick up, and Stiles is still on the fence on whether or not he wants him to right now.

“Stiles?” Peter says, making the decision for Stiles and picking up.

Shit.

Stiles sits up where he’s slouching on his sofa. “Hey, uh.” God, he shouldn’t have called. This was a mistake. Abort, abort, abort. “I think you left your sweater behind at my place.”

“My sweater?”

“Yeah. Your super expensive and pretentious cardigan. So—do you want to come by and pick it up?”

The other end of the phone is silent for a long while. Finally, Peter says, “Sure. I'll swing by in an hour if that works for you.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Stiles hangs up, and then spends the next half hour walking helplessly around his apartment, trying to figure out if he’s supposed to be tidying up or making himself look as ravishing as possible or just open the door stark naked and lay all his cards on the table. Then there’s a knock on the door and Stiles isn’t even close to ready, mentally or physically, because he’s still in a ratty hoodie and has no clue what he wants to say.

He opens the door anyway after he sees Peter through the peephole. He doesn’t look like he’s spent his afternoon lost in grief after losing his job. His eyes aren’t red from crying and he’s not wringing his hands and he looks perfectly put together, and Stiles isn’t sure what he was expecting, but definitely a little more emotion than this. His gut is swoops.

“Hi,” he says after he swings the door open. “Hey.”

“Stiles,” Peter says, not managing more than a tight smile. “You mentioned a cardigan.”

“Right.”

Stiles steps out of the way and beckons him in, and suddenly his apartment looks all wrong even though he just spent ages fussing with it. He should’ve cleaned more. He should’ve hidden that grocery fund jar Peter looks down on so much. He should’ve prepared.

“You doing okay?” Stiles asks. He grabs the cardigan off the back of the couch, realizing that he probably should’ve hidden it. He and Peter could’ve searched together, and then he’d be forced to hang out here just that much longer, and it might’ve ended in witty banter and inevitable sex. That would be nice. “Since, uh. This morning.”

“I’m fine,” Peter says. 

His eyes flick down to the cardigan in Stiles’ hand. Stiles hands it over. 

"I was thinking," Stiles says, his nerve coming and going like the swell of a tide. "We could keep—I mean, this doesn't have to be the end."

Peter looks confused, which is putting a slight crimp in Stiles' personal vision of Peter breaking out into a grin, confessing his love and his gratitude, and fast forward to good sex. "End of what?"

Oh god. "The end of—you know, us."

Stiles points between them. Peter watches his finger do so, the confusion morphing into a hardness on his face that makes Stiles feels like the temperature is dropping all around him.

"Stiles, you know what this was, don't you?" Peter asks slowly. "It was convenient. It was sex. And you always knew I was going to leave eventually—"

"Yeah, no, I know," Stiles cuts in. His voice is hitching up higher, some terrible emotion pushing it up his throat. He schools a forced nonchalance over his face, trying to keep this cool. "I just meant. I just thought that since we—"

"Listen, Stiles," Peter says, heaving a sigh and stepping closer. He looks like he regrets coming to pick up the sweater at all. "I'll be happy to swing by in the future when you're in the mood and I'm not busy. But anything more…"

His face pulls together, the discomfort of the unspoken rejection clear as day and finishing the rest of the sentence for him. Stiles feels a little like throwing up.

“It just wouldn’t be all that convenient anymore,” Peter says.

"Yeah, sure, I get it," Stiles says. "It was—it was just something casual. I know. I just thought maybe—" A lump in his throat causes him to stop talking. He doesn’t even know what he thought, what he’s trying to say here. Whatever it is, it clearly isn’t going to change anything. “Never mind.”

Peter gives him a look Stiles can’t quite pin down—maybe pity?—but before he can try, it’s gone, replaced with a coolness, a detachment that makes Stiles wish he’d never asked him to come over here. He could’ve burned that sweater and maybe even feel vindicated while doing so, watching that expensive Gucci cashmere cardigan go up in flames, but instead he had to call Peter over here and embarrass himself like a complete idiot.

Idiot. He’s such a fucking idiot.

“Okay, well,” Stiles says, ready to put an end to this. “I guess I’ll see you around then.”

He won’t. He’ll make it his life’s fucking mission to duck and hide if he sees him at the grocery store, to run to the other side of the street if he sees him out and about.

“This was a good time,” Peter says, clapping Stiles on the back like—like they’re fucking pals who don’t do more than say hi at the office microwave on Mondays. “We had a good run.”

“I—yeah, I guess we did.”

“Take care, Stiles.”

Peter gives him one last smile, and Stiles is torn between hoping this isn’t the last time and desperately wishing he never sees Peter again. He smiles back, knowing perfectly well that it’ll look painted on but not sure how to inject a false cheeriness into his disposition right now.

Peter walks out the door. Stiles feels a little hollow inside watching him do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Jackson is one of my favorite Teen Wolf characters. I just love how sneaky, self-obsessed, conniving, and greedy he is. OF FUCKING COURSE HE HAD TO STICK HIS NOSE WHERE IT DIDN'T BELONG IN THIS STORY.
> 
> Also, I want to give lots and lots of thanks to all the sweet comments I've been getting. My birthday was on Monday and checking my inbox to see all those kind words was INCREDIBLE. (This is the part where I was originally planning on joking about how all the messages were ALMOST as nice as lavish physical gifts but you know what, no. I am too happy to even JOKE.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to be honest, it feels SO CRAZY that a story I've been working on on/off for the last year has been posted (and now, finished) so quickly. I originally intended this story to be only around 50k and then each chapter grew and grew and grew and it somehow became this behemoth, and I'm just immeasurably happy that you awesome people keep coming back to read and give kudos and comment on my stories. Thank you for being here for this adventure!

So a new guy comes into Peter’s old office. He’s not a finance expert—he’s really just a glorified pincushion who’s doing the accounting for the company. He introduces himself to everybody as Deucalion, and he’s quiet and English and as unassuming as can be, and still Stiles kind of hates him, and for the sole illogical reason that he’s in Peter’s office sitting in Peter’s chair using a desk that Stiles used to happily writhe naked on top of.

The really worrying part is that nobody even makes any jokes about Stiles getting into his pants next, not even Isaac. Not even _Jackson_ , who seems to be slightly less bent on bugging Stiles ever since he blew up on him at the printer, apparently unaware of the rage that bubbles inside Stiles until then and now frightened that it'll appear again at any moment if he provokes him and Stiles will smash in all the windows on Jackson's car.

Honestly, he wishes more people would take a page out of Jackson’s book and avoid him altogether. Everybody else just whispers, walks by him and murmurs, like he’s back in high school and back to being a weird piece of scandalous gossip. God knows what they're saying. Probably not that Stiles is next in line for the employee of the month award.

“Come on,” Scott says over lunch that day. Stiles is eating at his desk—has been a lot lately because somehow even doing work is less painful that the stewing that comes up when he’s not keeping busy. “Let’s go out tonight. It’s Tuesday.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles sighs. “And I know it’s been a while.” He doesn’t really want to go, but. “Okay, fine. Just—no matchmaking this time, all right?”

Scott nods. “Yeah, whatever you want.”

Maybe it’ll even be good for him to get some fresh air. Get a little drunk and forget about everything going on in his life, from the emails that’re mounting up and the sad state that is his love life and the fact that he hasn’t even been sleeping well lately, his bed suddenly too big like it never was before. He doesn't want to be this guy; he doesn't want to be this stereotype of a man scorned and dumped who can't bring himself to leave the house anymore.

“Okay, I’ll go,” Stiles says.

\--

It was a mistake to have ever come to this bar with Peter. He should’ve known from the beginning that it was a huge error to bring Peter anywhere he associates with having fun with friends or enjoying himself, because now he’s at a bar he used to have a good time in, that used to be reserved just for unwinding with Scott and Isaac, and now all he can think is: Peter.

Peter used to play darts with him over by that corner. Peter once sat in one of these stools and drew Stiles close to him and whispered filth in his ear all night long. Peter and him used to have fun here.

Fuck. If this is what it’s going to be like everywhere he took Peter, he’ll need to move, change grocery stores, request a job transfer, and possibly just leave Beacon Hills as a whole.

“So how do you want to get over him?” Isaac asks as the bartender gives Stiles the third shot he ordered. “Maybe go back to chasing Lydia?”

“No. No more dipping myself into the company pot,” Stiles says, downing the shot. “It’s not worth the risk.”

“Of getting your heart stepped on?”

“What? Of getting _fired_ ,” Stiles says. “I haven’t been stepped on. No part of me has been stepped on.”

“Stiles, come on.”

“No, don’t. I’m not heartbroken. It was just sex.”

Scott and Isaac don’t look convinced. Instead, they exchange a look they apparently presume Stiles can’t see, and Stiles thinks about waving down the bartender for a fourth shot. Maybe that one will finally distort reality enough that he won’t have to consciously deal with any of this.

“You sure? You know we all saw your freak-out on Jackson.”

“Great.” Stiles doesn’t even have it in him to be humiliated about everyone watching and/or overhearing his blow-up during the work day. “Then I don’t have to tell you guys the story.”

“Well, if it helps.”

“I don’t think it will,” Stiles says. Right now he’s not sure he can even handle focusing on one emotion, let alone rehashing all of the ones he’s felt in the last twenty-four hours. “So can we just move right past the phase where you feel sorry for me? And go straight to the bit where everything goes back to normal?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! _Yes_ ,” Stiles says. Why aren't they offering to take him to rooftop clubs and sexy parties now that Stiles actually needs it? “Everything's okay. I'm okay. Let’s just move on and never mention any of it ever again.”

“Right. You seem super okay,” Isaac says. Stiles could just smack him.

“You should at least ask her to the Christmas party,” Scott insists.

“Who?”

“Lydia,” Scott says. “She might say yes. I think it would be good for you to try.”

“Were you not listening when I said I was completely soured off of dating at the office?” Stiles grumbles, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Exactly how many times do you think I can get away with that before they fire my ass?”

“You're not even in the same department,” Scott reasons. “Nobody would care.”

“Do you hear yourself? _Of course_ they would care. I have a coworker who actively worked to get me fired.”

“Who, Jackson?”

“Jackson’s an asshole,” Isaac says. “If you want to fuck a coworker, just do it.”

“I don't want to,” Stiles says. He doesn't want to fuck a coworker. He doesn't want to do a benefits-only thing with another colleague, or anyone else for that matter, because he's complete shit at it. Not only because his only experience with it ended in jobs lost, but also because he couldn't follow any of the rules. They were such simple rules, and Stiles still couldn't. Don't get involved. Don't form feelings. Don't fall in love. Just take the sex for what it's worth and don't make a big deal out of it. No fucking way is he ever doing that again.

“Okay,” Scott says. His hand gently finds Stiles’ back, rubbing between his shoulderblades. “What do you want, then?”

For all this regret to go away. To go back in time and convince himself to never even talk to Peter, not in that coffeeshop, not at work, not at the grocery store, _nowhere_. To feel a little less like a rejected loser.

“What I want,” Stiles says, reaching for his empty glass, “is more alcohol.”

“Well, we can certainly make that dream come true,” Isaac says. “Hey, barkeep!” He points at Stiles’ glass, nothing but leftover bubbles up the sides. “Another drink for my friend here.”

“And keep them coming,” Stiles demands.

\--

Stiles makes the grievous mistake of going online that weekend.

He has completely forgotten that he and Peter are Facebook friends—as a matter of fact, the memory of sending or accepting a friend request is hazy at best—but then right there, right at the top of his screen, is a picture of Peter.

Liked thirty-six times. Commented on twice by names Stiles doesn't recognize. Captioned _Nothing like a fine wine._ The photograph is of him sitting at a table at an outdoor cafe wearing dark-tinted sunglasses holding a glass of a deep red wine, a half-eaten dish of penne pasta in front of him. Stiles only catches a few glimpses and still sort of wants to pitch himself off a mountain.

Who took that picture? Is he really enjoying unemployment that much? Was that comment an underhanded jab at Stiles’ naïveté with wine? Does the fact that Stiles has never heard Peter mention any of the people commenting on his picture cement the fact that Stiles never knew all that much about Peter in the first place? Where is that cafe anyway? Is he on a trip? Is he eating with a friend? Is he already going on dates? Should Stiles be going on dates?

Stiles should really unfriend him. If each time Peter posts Stiles gets a small heart attack like he just did, he'll be dead much too young. He's not a part of Peter's life anymore and that means he doesn't need to be connected with him on social media and that's probably a good thing, because Stiles was getting sick of all his foodie posts on Instagram anyway.

He closes the tab in a rush even after scrolling down to safety. He feels a little like someone's just given him CPR a little too roughly, every part of him embarrassingly shaken. It was just a fucking picture. He needs to pull himself together.

Fine, maybe Stiles will take Scott's advice and just ask Lydia out. Maybe this is exactly what he needs. Nothing like a good rejection to shake up his already-shaken bones.

\--

Thanksgiving at the sheriff’s house is not quite as fun as it usually is this year.

It kind of sucks, because suddenly all the things that Stiles enjoyed are not living up to their usual hype ever since everything with Peter went to shit, and Stiles hates that, that Peter still has this horrible, taloned grip on his life even far away and long gone. It's not fucking fair. Stiles has washed his sheets at least three times and it still smells like Peter's body wash.

And now there's this, sitting at a usually lively Thanksgiving feast at his father's house and feeling about as lifeless as the turkey. And coincidentally, also as dead, dry, and salty. All because of one horrible asshole. He tries to push away all these oppressive feelings in order to actually enjoy Melissa's cranberries and the game on TV and the store-bought pumpkin pie Scott brought, but everyone's happy laughter is grating on him a little bit and it certainly isn't helping that every time Stiles turns around, his dad and Melissa are wrapped around each other chuckling like two teenagers in love, and even though he knows that they aren't intentionally rubbing salt in all his bitter wounds by being a functioning couple, he still feels irrationally like throwing porcelain bases each time he stumbles over them giggling together.

Honestly, Stiles doesn’t even know where all the holidays went. It seems like just yesterday when he and Peter were staying in for Halloween to make out on the couch while Stiles wore his Batman mask and tried to coax Peter into roleplay, and now it’s Thanksgiving?

“You seem a little tense,” Scott says as Stiles and him plate the table for dinner. “Here.” He puts down his armful of napkins and pushes the nearest alcohol—a half-drunken glass of wine—into Stiles’ hands. “Finish this. That'll help.”

“I'm fine,” Stiles insists. “Honestly.”

Even though he can't shake off the strong, unhealthy urge to repeat his mistakes and check Facebook just in case Peter's off somewhere having more Thanksgiving fun than Stiles is. He takes a gulp of the wine anyway; it's so, so very dry that it tastes a bit like what he imagines the inside of a dry erase marker to be like. 

If Peter were here, he'd smack Stiles up the head if he said a thought like that out loud.

“Do you want more? I can get you some more,” Scott offers, sounding extremely mother hen-like, if mother hens gave out alcohol.

Stiles puts the glass down and gets back to laying out silverware, doing his best to make it clear that he can actually make it through the night without getting drunk. Scott gets like this every time Stiles goes through a breakup. He coddles and he worries and he acts like it's Stiles’ birthday for a month straight, getting him everything from snacks he likes to tiny gifts to cheer him up to constant check-ins regarding his emotional well-being, and then on the other side of the spectrum is Isaac, who becomes the master of tough love and spends absolutely no time fussing over Stiles at all, evident in the very blunt texts he's sent Stiles, all of which are variations of the same common theme: “get over it” and “you need to move the fuck on.” Stiles can't quite stand either method. Scott's done everything save for wrap him up in a woolen blanket and feed him soup from a thermos and Isaac won't stop acting like one of those no-nonsense coaches at a gym that do nothing but yell at their clients, and maybe Stiles just wants a middle fucking ground, preferably a place where no one treats Stiles differently from how they did a month ago.

“I'll go get you more wine,” Scott says, determined, and leaves before Stiles can ask him not to.

He leaves Stiles to finish up the rest of the table-setting alone. He really wishes he hadn't, though, because it's such a simple task that Stiles’ mind can't help but wander as he folds and rolls napkins, dragging him to places he'd really rather not visit, like wondering if Peter is currently celebrating Thanksgiving with someone in front of a crackling fire on top of a bearskin rug and feeding that someone turkey legs and pumpkin pie.

“Stiles,” his dad says a moment later from the doorway, pulling him out of that nightmare. “Could you come over here for a second?”

He beckons Stiles closer. Stiles puts down the napkin he's doing his best to fold into a frog and walks over to him. His father is in an apron with lace frill that's most definitely not his own, and something about the idea of Melissa bringing one over to give to the sheriff is making Stiles’ gut sucker punch his heart just a bit.

“I just wanted to apologize,” his father says, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ shoulder to pull him in close. “I've been thinking about it a lot, and I think I was a little harsh on you when I ran into you and your... boss a little bit ago.”

“Not my boss,” Stiles says quickly. Not now, not before either, not never.

“Point is, you're an adult and I know you can handle yourself and whatever relationships you're in,” the sheriff continues. “I'm butting out and I'm sorry if I made him uncomfortable when we all met that night.”

Stiles wonders if there's anything—literally anything—he'd want to talk about less right now. He’d probably even prefer a dead-ended political debate with his uber-conservative great grandparents at the dinner table right now.

“Um,” Stiles says, at a complete loss here. “Thanks.”

“You two still getting along?”

“Um,” Stiles says again. If there ever hasn’t been a time to talk about his bad choice in men and life and relationships, it’s now, right before Thanksgiving dinner. “Yes.” If his oddly flat tone of voice isn't giving him away here, his extremely stiff shoulders under his father's arm probably are. “Everything's good.”

“I'm happy to hear it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Very good.”

His father claps him on the back. “Great. Because honestly, Stiles, the last thing I want to be is unsupportive.”

“You aren't.”

“Okay,” he says. He gives Stiles’ shoulder a squeeze. “Well. Anytime you want to bring him over for dinner, you let me know.”

Stiles’ throat goes tight. “Sure thing, dad,” he says, doing his best to smile.

He twists out of his father’s grip and points over to the napkins, trying to find an escape route out of this conversation. Stiles doesn't have a clue how to begin to explain that Peter's not around anymore, that he was right from the beginning that getting involved like this was a bad idea, that there will never be a jolly big dinner where the three of them will sit together. For all Stiles knows, Peter could be eating turkey off of someone's naked body right now.

Okay, that's kind of a worst case scenario, but still. It's possible. And Stiles doesn't want to go through the pain of sharing that with his dad.

“I still have a lot of tablesetting to do, so,” Stiles says, even though what he really wants to do is find sanctuary in the bathroom before Scott comes back with more wine and those pitying eyes of his. He plucks at the sheriff's apron. “And I bet you're needed in the kitchen.”

“I bet you’re right.”

Stiles watches him head back into the kitchen. He can hear Melissa’s laughter filtering out into the dining room, can imagine the way his father smiles at her, and feels his chest seize up a little bit.

\--

December comes very quickly after Thanksgiving is over, bringing the cold with it, officially giving Stiles an excuse to stay home in the warmth curled up on his couch, wallowing in how lamentable his life is, not facing the dark, freezing world. At least, up until Stiles gets something of a wake-up-call to stop moping when Isaac starts being nice to him.

Isaac is notoriously not ever nice to him. It's part of Isaac’s charm, and it's part of his post-breakup tactic to bully Stiles into happy singlehood. So Isaac showing up at his door, unprompted, with what seems to be a bag of pity bagels for Stiles to enjoy, the penny drops quickly for Stiles that he's just become a bit of a hopeless case. The kind of person who needs consolation baked goods delivered.

For the record, he would've preferred doughnuts, but he takes the bag anyway.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks as Isaac lets himself in.

“I think I have to apologize to you,” Isaac says. He even looks oddly serious, like he's being earnest, like he isn't even pulling Stiles’ leg, which is slightly frightening. “I think I made a mistake.”

Stiles is unnerved, to say the least. “God. What did you do?”

“This,” Isaac says, pointing to where Stiles is sitting in his armchair in pajamas in all his uncaring glory. “I did _this_.”

Stiles straightens up a bit. “I'm not sure I follow.”

“I created this—this sweatpants monster that you’ve become,” Isaac says. “I made you into this brooding, grumpy weirdo.”

“Now hold on just a moment,” Stiles says, starting to feel a little defensive, but Isaac jumps in before he can say more.

“I told Peter to be careful with you. I told him you really liked him but were just too emotionally stupid to be honest about it and that me and Scott would bulldoze him into the ground if he messed around with you.”

Stiles still isn't sure he's following because—what? How? This better be Isaac playing a colossal joke at Stiles’ expense.

“Wait. What?”

“That night we were all at the bar, Peter and I went to play pool and I said all that to him and I'm sorry, all right?” Isaac says. “I'm the one that scared him off, I'm the reason he broke up with you.”

“What the _fuck?_ ” Stiles says. He fucking knew Isaac was saying something he shouldn't have been to Peter that night, but he just figured that Isaac was telling Peter he was a doofus for sleeping with Stiles or to not give Stiles chocolate after ten p.m., not taking it upon himself to confess feelings that he had no business confessing. Jesus fuck, what if this is why he was so eager to leave? So nonchalant about saying goodbye?

Something about Isaac's apology cuts in the middle of his spinning mind for a second.

“Wait a minute,” Stiles says. “Peter didn't break up with me.”

“He didn't?”

“He just—we just.” Stiles doesn't even fucking know; he's completely blocked that humiliating memory out of his brain. All he remembers is that Peter didn't use any breakup cliches on him or ask to still be friends. Peter was perfectly amicable about the whole thing, if not reasonable. They were having fun while it made sense and Peter getting fired and moving on just stopped it from making sense. Stiles gets it. It was mutual.

“Hold on,” Isaac says. “ _You_ dumped him?”

“What? No. No, no one dumped anyone. We just agreed to end things. Together. Like adults.”

“And that's why you're now sitting around eating ice cream all day? Like an adult?”

Hey, didn't Isaac come here to apologize? Stiles stands up, pushing the blanket draped over his lap aside. “I'm not taking any guff from someone who told my no-strings-attached fuck buddy that I was in fucking love with him.”

“For fuck’s sake, Stiles, this is not what no-strings-attached looks like!” Isaac yells. “This is what all the strings, lots of rope, and being glued together with duct tape looks like! Stop pulling the wool over your own eyes!”

“You are such an asshole,” Stiles yells right back. “And you're wrong. I'm fine. I'm fine! I'm not in love with him and I never was. I can't believe you _told him I loved him_.”

Some silly, juvenile instinct rearing its head inside himself wants Stiles to demand Isaac call Peter up and take it back, set the record straight and make it clear that this isn't true, that all of this is a huge misunderstanding and major overstepping of boundaries and the furthest possible thing from reality, but Peter's probably off drinking wine somewhere not sparing Stiles a single thought.

“For fuck’s sake, Stiles,” Isaac says again, and he has the nerve to sound annoyed. “We all know you were, so would you just fucking admit it already?”

“I wasn't,” Stiles insists.

“You _were_.”

“I wasn't,” he says again. It feels like there's a wild animal clawing at his throat the longer Isaac pushes this.

“You _loved him_ and everybody's sick of you acting like you didn't,” Isaac says.

“Oh, everybody's sick of it?” Stiles asks. His voice feels so raw, mouth dry. “Boy, am I sorry for _everybody else_. To hell with how I feel!”

“Okay, how do you feel?”

Isaac’s being very aggressive, like this is somehow all Stiles’ fault and he's inconveniencing him each second he doesn't own up to it. God, Stiles doesn't want to be strong-armed into admitting his feelings. Stiles doesn't want to dig that deep in himself and let any of it get out; right now it's all safely tucked away in the basement of Stiles’ heart where nothing is ever acknowledged and everything is shamefully hidden. If he admits it, if he says any of it out loud, he can't take it back.

“I'm angry!” Stiles says, and whoops, there it goes, spilling out. “I'm fucking pissed because I let all this happen!”

“Let what happen?”

“I let him get away, you dickwad!” Stiles yells. “I screwed all this up, and I'm mad at myself for it!” He grabs his own hair for an insane second to keep from kicking something like a madman. “Is that what you wanted me to say? Does that improve literally _anything_?”

He seems to have rendered Isaac silent after that, and the silence that follows his outburst is unsettling. Stiles hates this. He can't imagine hating any of this more, but he especially hates that it's starting to sink in that he misses Peter. That he maybe is at fault here somehow and might not have realized it. That he wishes he could do it differently.

He's done this all wrong, he's pretty sure of it. He got so caught up in trying to do casual sex just right and keeping Peter at arm’s length and not ruining everything with feelings that he somehow, still, ended up ruining everything with feelings. He doesn't even know how to fix it. Worst of all, Peter's probably roadtripping somewhere beautiful in Napa right now taste-testing riesling without a care in the world, not about Beacon Hills, not about his lost job, and most certainly not about Stiles.

“Okay,” Isaac finally says, voice level. “So you screwed it up. All right.”

“All right?”

“Yeah. And if there's really nothing you can do about it, you just gotta let go,” Isaac says. “Move on. Eat every single one of those bagels I brought and stop whining.”

Stiles doesn't want to eat that many bagels. “But,” he starts.

“There’ll be other people,” Isaac says. “Maybe not people you'll be fucking at work, but yeah, other people. Time to start over.”

The words Isaac's saying are making sense, but they also aren't quite—they're very one-dimensional, is all, and they're not considering any of the complications. It's easy to tell someone to do all these things, not as easy to actually do it. Like putting IKEA furniture together. The instructions look so cut and dry and then, suddenly, everything's a lot harder than it first seemed. And what the fuck are bagels going to do to fix anything?

“Here,” Isaac says, pushing the bag abruptly into Stiles’ hands. “Eat. I have to go.”

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks, feeling remarkably stupid holding onto all these bagels. Like a schoolboy with his mother-approved lunchbag. “Don’t tell me you’re going to keep—keep meddling.”

Isaac narrows his eyes. “I thought there was nothing left to meddle in.”

“There isn't.” At least, Stiles doesn't think there is. Or maybe he doesn't want there to be? He has no fucking clue anymore. “I'm moving on, all right?”

Isaac gives him a long, hard look like he doesn't believe a single word leaving Stiles’ mouth. It's the same look he's been getting from a million other people since Peter wandered out of his life like how someone might check out of a forgettable hotel. Stiles doesn't quite care for it.

“All right,” Isaac finally says, but he obviously doesn't mean it. He obviously thinks that the minute the door shuts behind him, Stiles is going to pile three more blankets on himself and binge watch sad movies, because the next thing he says is, “Good luck.”

He leaves, leaving Stiles alone with too many bagels that aren't even the kind he likes. He eats them anyway, because this is pretty much his life these days.

\--

It's extremely uncomfortable being around Finstock after Peter leaves. He was never exactly all that comfortable to begin with, but the guy’s his _boss_ and interaction is kind of essential and yet, all Stiles can ever think of when he walks by him in the hallway is that he knows that Stiles spent time in this very office on his knees blowing the finance guy. That was information Stiles never, ever wanted Finstock to be privy to—pretty much any and all information about his sex life, as a matter of fact, but this makes it so much worse because he very nearly got fired because of it and now because he wasn't he feels caught between shameful and grateful and incredibly hot in the face each time he crosses paths with him.

It makes him wish that Stiles was the one fired. At least then he’d never have to look his superior in the eye again and know that he read all those filthy emails that HR had been monitoring all along.

Stiles thinks about that and all the other ways his life has seriously gone downhill lately while he scrolls through the millions of unread emails in his inbox all demanding he do things. Ping, in comes another email. Ping, ping.

And how is that even possible, that Stiles’ inbox is more crammed than ever even though he’s no longer spending half of his time at work having sex with Peter in a conference room? He spends all his time at his desk doing work, honest to goodness _work_ , and somehow, he’s still swamped?

Ping, ping, ping.

He grabs another pity bagel from the massive bag from Isaac that Stiles has since brought to work, wondering if he’ll even have time to go to lunch at this point. He’s brimming over with work and it isn’t even the type of work he can ignore until it disperses. Instead it piles up and up and up until Stiles is left under a mountain of crushing weight.

He opens one email. It’s from the marketing team, wanting to see the recent numbers. The next one is asking for graphs Stiles hasn’t even started making yet. The one after has a massive document attached that Stiles is supposed to have read before the day’s end.

Maybe this promotion really was just a massive joke on Peter’s end. Maybe he just wanted to see Stiles sweat and struggle and flop around like a massively stressed fish out of water. That would make sense, given the way he clearly doesn’t and never did care for Stiles anywhere outside of the bedroom. Shame that Stiles is only figuring this out in retrospect, but yeah, Peter’s intentions were obviously never wholesome.

Not that Stiles is bitter. He’s eating a breakup consolation bagel and has deleted all the texts Peter’s ever sent him out of his phone, even that one that was a link to a lacrosse article he actually really liked, but he’s not bitter.

The point is, he doesn’t want to be part of this joke anymore. Peter’s gone, and no one’s even benefitting from it, and Stiles isn’t right for a position like this anyway. He’s right for goofing up and not living up to his potential.

He goes to Finstock’s office after he finishes his bagel to express these concerns and just go back to where he belongs already: the entry position he started with that’s been comfortable and cozy for all these years. Peter was wrong about him. He isn’t a fit for this damn promotion, and he isn’t a fit for Peter’s fuck buddy either.

“Hi,” Stiles says once he lets himself into Finstock’s office. “Do you by any chance have a minute?”

Finstock is looking at him like Stiles has spent too much time as it is in his office recently. Stiles can’t quite disagree; just looking at the chair he was sitting in a while back as if about to be strapped down and electrocuted when Finstock fired Peter shoots all sorts of memories back into Stiles’ brain, only to be quickly shuffled aside into the Forceful Forgetting portion of his mind.

“One minute,” Finstock repeats. “Just one.”

That’s all Stiles really needs, anyway. He sucks in a huge breath. “I think you should demote me.”

“What?”

“I should be demoted,” Stiles says again. “I should go back to my old job, because let's face it, that's all I really deserve anyway.” He rubs his nose, looking down. No way can he stare Finstock in the eye while he says this. “I know I only got promoted because I… had an inside track.”

God, does he hope Finstock catches on to what he's saying and doesn't ask for clarification. 

“Stilinski,” Finstock says, sounding annoyed. Not a good sign. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Fuck. Of fucking course.

“My promotion,” Stiles tells him. “I know that Peter recommended it, and now with hindsight and all that, I'm sure it looks real sketchy that he did, and I agree, all right? I'm not suited for the job. I'm late getting work done and it takes me forever to turn in projects and I have to try really, really hard to stay awake in the meetings.” Finstock’s giving him a strange look, something erring on his usual default annoyance but with curiosity and confusion sprinkled in too. “Just give me back my old job.”

And he can finally stop feeling like such a fraud all the damn time.

Finstock crosses his arms. “I decided to promote you because I figured you might be motivated to work a little harder if someone lit a fire under you,” he finally says. “You know, give you a confidence boost.”

Stiles isn't sure that that worked even a little bit. Well, maybe it would have, if he hadn't always been convincing himself that the only reason he even got a promotion is because he was in the opportune position of sucking the finance guy’s dick.

“The point is, it was my decision,” Finstock says.

“Seriously?”

“What the hell do you feel so damn guilty about anyway?” Finstock continues. “Were you sleeping with Hale just to sweep my job out from under me or something?”

“What? No.” Stiles shakes his head. That—that never even _occurred_ to him when he and Peter started having sex. He was so busy stuck in the dichotomy of worrying about the safety of his job and climbing onto cloud nine with Peter in the sack that he had no time left over to mull over how this arrangement could benefit him on a corporate level, or any level, really, outside of a sexual one. “That wasn't it at all.”

“Good, because you're not getting my job, Stilinski.”

“I don't want it!”

“Good,” Finstock says again, eyes wild as he stares Stiles down. How he’s managing to do this while sitting down is a talent that Stiles will probably never possess. “Now do you want to keep your job or what?”

“Keep my job?” Stiles says. “Are you—firing me?”

“What? No.” Finstock shakes his head. “I’m asking if you really—and I mean, _really_ —want to go back to sitting around wasting company resources and using about two percent of your brainpower, which is exactly what your old job did for you.”

“Um.”

“Or do you want to try and actually challenge yourself and see what you’re capable of beyond spending all your time on Facebook when you think no one’s looking?”

“Um,” Stiles says again. Is the gist here that Finstock somehow cares for his wellbeing?

Stiles’ answers clearly aren’t coming fast enough for Finstock’s tastes, considering he looks up at the ceiling like he needs a higher power to lend him some patience before he can continue this discussion. “Look, if it’s so damn hard for you,” he says, “we could make things easier. Do you want an assistant?”

“Do I—what?”

“An assistant,” Finstock repeats. “Are all these questions too hard for you or what?”

“You’d seriously give me an assistant?” Stiles asks. “After everything I—” He stops himself in a moment of brief, fleeting intelligence he hasn’t seen a lot of these days. He really doesn’t need to rehash all the recent events that call into question his dignity and honesty as an employee when someone’s dangling perks in front of his nose like a carrot, now does he? “Really?”

“Yes, really. We’re not in the business of working our employees to the bone, and you’re—well, aside from all the stunts you’ve pulled, don’t think I’ve forgotten—you’re not a bad egg, Stilinski.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Stiles starts, rolling his lips into his mouth, “you’d like to keep me around.”

“I'm not putting it into writing, but basically,” Finstock says. Stiles’ attempt at fighting a surprised smile must not be working all that well, because Finstock grimaces and says, “Oh, get that cocky grin off your face and get back to work already.”

“Wait,” Stiles says before Finstock goes back to his computer. “So I really get an assistant?”

“Yeah,” Finstock says. “But only if you shut up and leave me alone.”

Stiles knows a cue when he hears it. He nods, eager to make that wish happen, and turns around, slipping out the door.

He stands on the other side of it for a long moment, listening to the sound of clacking keyboards, trying to compute, trying to process what just happened. If that _really_ just happened.

\--

The Christmas party notice pops into his inbox right on the first of December.

_Dancing, music, free food, and fancy wine!_ the email promises. _Let loose with your coworkers!_

Stiles thinks he’s let loose enough with his coworkers. He sighs, scrolling up and down the email pointlessly, wondering just how much he’ll hate himself if he goes. He has no date. He doesn't even have any prospects for a date. And he's also been something of a killjoy these last few weeks that would probably douse out a good party like a hose at a fire if he went.

A text from Scott lights up his phone a minute later. _You going?_ it says.

God, he doesn't want to. Everybody there is going to be having a splendid time and showing off sequin-clad dates on their arms and remaining Stiles that he is painfully alone during the holidays. It's bad enough during the rest of the year, but it sucks extra hard when it's Christmas time and the coworkers he hates the most happen to be the ones bringing the hottest people to the party. He just wants to stay home and spend his night clicking through Hulu options and forgetting that somewhere, all his colleagues are having the time of their lives while dancing to Bing Crosby songs.

Scott chimes in again. _U should ask Lydia_ it says.

Feels like a bad idea. Or just a dead end, maybe, but either way, not exactly helpful for his self-esteem, which is currently about as strong as a scarecrow in a hurricane. He texts as much to Scott, who doesn't seem to agree.

**Scott @ 11:58am:** _Just ask her_

**Scott @ 11:59am:** _What's the worst that could happen?_

**Stiles @ 11:59am:** _My ego goes from rock bottom to that crumbly little dirt underneath the rocks_

**Scott @ 12:01pm:** _She might say yes_

Yeah, maybe so, but the depressing part is that Stiles doesn't even _want_ her to say yes. There's really only one person he wants to go to this party with, the kind who he'd drag off to a closet halfway through the night and listen to his pretentious opinions on the wine during the rest of it, and that person just isn't available.

It takes him a few moments to realize just how alarmingly pathetic all that sounds. It’s a party. It’s supposed to be a good time. There’s going to be free booze and someone at work is going to make a complete laughingstock of themselves after too much alcohol and Stiles should be there for it, not moping around because Peter ruined everything. Peter did ruin everything, but if anything, he should be fucking pissed, not _despondent_.

It's his rage that barrels him downstairs into the cafeteria, and this same rage that encourages him to take Scott's advice. What the fuck does he have to lose?

Lydia’s easy to spot, even in the middle of a busy lunchtime. Her red hair makes her stands out where she’s sitting at one of the center tables with Allison, and a few years ago, being flocked by friends would’ve been the kind of thing that scared Stiles off from approaching a pretty girl, but he finds he’s oddly fearless about this—maybe because he’s not even going in expecting good news. He’s almost going in expecting a no, and having the common sense to know that it’s coming, it kind of takes the edge off.

“Hey, Lydia.”

She doesn’t look up from her food. Not a wonderful sign, but Stiles plows on regardless.

“Do you want to go with me to the winter event?”

She looks up this time, eyebrows close together. She looks extremely doubtful, so again, not a great sign. Stiles sneaks a glance over his shoulder where a handful of people are watching are watching—of fucking course they are—and they don’t exactly seem super confident about Stiles’ chances here if their facial expressions are anything to go by. “I thought you were seeing the finance consultant,” Lydia says.

Oh boy, gossip sure travels fast around this place. Good to know that this story has made it to all the other floors too, like some kind of horrible contagious virus.

“Uh, yeah, but he left.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So why does it matter that he doesn’t work here anymore?” she asks. “You aren’t together anymore?”

He scratches the back of his head. He has no logical explanation for this, because yeah, there’s no good reason as to why Peter leaving means their relationship had to abruptly end, but he doesn’t want to go get into that now, because Peter made that decision for him and now he can’t do anything about it, so really, he’d rather not start airing his dirty laundry—any more than he already has—around the cafeteria.

“Uh. No. We aren’t,” he says.

She makes a noise, something slightly surprised but all in all not too interested. And nothing else. Leaving Stiles standing there feeling remarkably out of place.

“Um. So what do you think?”

“About?”

“Going to the event with me?”

“Hmm. I’m going to have to pass,” Lydia says. “Isn't that against company rules?”

Stiles rolls back on the sole of his feet. She probably wasn't intending to take a dig at him—then again, maybe she was—but Stiles still feels it sting him in the chest. Is that what he is now, the fucking cautionary tale of the office?

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

He's reminded of the last time this happened. It was maybe a year after he started working here and could hardly even focus on his work because of the Lydia-fueled fog he was consumed by, and just when he had finally worked up the courage to ask her out, she had said no and Stiles had hunkered back to his desk in flaming embarrassment.

And then, years later, he had told Peter about it, and Peter had asked if Stiles knew why she turned him down.

He supposes now is a good as time as any to find out.

“Hey, Lydia,” he says, turning back around to face her. “That first time you rejected me—was that the reason why?”

She looks up from her tray. “What?”

“Because it was against the office rules,” Stiles presses. “Is that why you said no?”

“Yes,” she says. Her eyebrows push together, like she's wondering where any of this is coming from, and as confusing this must be for her, everything is coming together for Stiles.

Lydia had said no because of the rules, which makes sense and if he had known earlier, it would've saved him from months of self-critique and introspection, but the important part is that Stiles knows someone who said yes in spite of the rules. Someone who actively pursued him and wouldn't take no for an answer and actually lost their job because they dated him anyway with no concern for if it was allowed or not. Someone who valued him over everything else.

So why the fuck did Peter leave so willingly? Why did he not bother to fight for Stiles at all when it all went to shit? It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t add up.

He's still standing in the middle of the cafeteria. He should probably find somewhere else to have this existential crisis. Everyone’s looking at him and he’s already kind of the office wildcard, what with the sex scandal and the random temper tantrums, and staring into space right during the lunch rush is probably not helping that image.

“Uh, thanks anyway,” Stiles tells Lydia, trying to clear his mind. “Have a good lunch.”

He leaves before she can ask any other questions—namely, _what’s wrong with you_ —and goes back upstairs, but the elevator ride isn’t long enough for him to get through everything he’s thinking about, and the walk to his desk isn’t either.

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be feeling anymore. If it makes sense for him to be sad or angry or just stop _thinking about it so damn much_ and just push it all aside. The last option would probably be the healthiest, but Stiles has never been very good at doing things that are good for him—Peter, case in point—so he goes for the others instead, for the smorgasbord of hurricaned emotions, for rage and disappointment and moodiness, things that Stiles hopes will sort themselves out with time eventually.

\--

He can hardly believe he goes, but he goes to the damn Christmas party. He's basically bullied into it by Isaac's barrage of text messages telling him to get out of his damn pajamas and leave the house already, so he acquiesces like a weak man and puts on that dusty old suit in the back of his closet and goes to the damn thing.

He regrets it almost instantaneously when he walks in; the place looks very, very happy, so much so that it's radiating holiday cheer, and Stiles is perfectly aware that he must stick out like a sore thumb. Garlands are everywhere and classic Christmas songs are playing and the eleventh floor, usually full of stuffy conference tables, has somehow been transformed into a winter wonderland. Stiles kind of hates all of it.

"You came," Scott says when he sees him. 

“I came,” Stiles says, sighing. “Against my better judgement.”

“I’m glad, but. Uh.”

Scott’s making a face that Stiles knows from personal experience can’t possibly be good news, and with that one poorly concealed grimace, all the hope that tonight won’t suck zooms away from Stiles. “What?” he asks. “What is it? Why are you making that face?”

“You-Know-Who is here.”

“What? Who? Please say Voldemort,” Stiles says, shutting his eyes as if it’s somehow possible to completely block out all his surroundings. He pinches his nose. “Please. Don’t tell me Peter’s here.”

“Peter’s here.”

“ _Ugh_.” Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did he come? Why did _Stiles_ come? He’s just started sorting out his clusterfuck of feelings, he can’t handle Peter physically being near him, not yet. “Why the fuck is he here? Is he gatecrashing? If he is, I can slip a twenty to security to get him escorted out of here.”

“I think he was invited.”

“ _Fuck_.” Stiles considers ripping out his own hair by the fistfuls. He thinks about all the times recently his father has urged him to be the better, bigger person and tries to figure out if leaving now and eating ice cream at home would be something that kind of person would do. Hasn’t he been the bigger person enough with Peter? Isn’t it Peter’s turn? “Think anyone would notice if I jumped off the roof?”

“Stiles, come on,” Scott says, grabbing his sleeve.

“I’d make sure there’s a mattress waiting for me underneath, jeez.”

“The punch is really good. It’s going to be fine. Just avoid him.”

“Oh, the punch is good?” Stiles asks, like that makes a fucking difference.

“Just stay for a little while,” Scott says, and then holds onto Stiles’ wrist with a firmness that makes it clear he’s expecting Stiles to make a run for it.

No, he’s not going anywhere. He’s not running away from Peter when he’s done nothing wrong here. Peter’s the one who ended things with them and left and decided that they were over, not Stiles, and if he has the lack of human decency to show up here when this is clearly Stiles’ turf after he’s been such an asshole—not for the first time—then that’s his problem. Stiles is going to get himself some wine and go hit on Jordan once he gets tipsy enough to think it’s a good idea, and if Peter sees them, well. Still not his problem.

"Peter's here," Isaac says, sidling up to the two of them.

"Yes, jeez, I know."

"So you've talked to him?"

"No, have you?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, really?" Stiles bites the inside of his cheeks. "So is he broke now? Broke and homeless? Jobless too?" All three make the most sense, honestly. Why else would Peter come to the holiday party of a company he abandoned if not for the free booze and snacks? "Maybe begging for his job back?"

"He's got a new job," Isaac says. "Here in the city, actually."

Well, that's just. Lovely.

"Good for him," Stiles says, and even on a good day, he can't make those words sound authentic. "Did you tell him to get out of here while you were at it?"

"I didn't."

"Wow. Some best friend you are."

"Stiles," Isaac says, sounding irritatingly like a father about to sigh and teach a lesson. Fuck that. "He's not bothering you, is he?"

"He is. The minute he walked through the front doors, he started bothering me."

Stiles wants to ask more, but refrains. What did Isaac and Peter chat about? Is he dating again? Did he ask about Stiles? Does he look ragged and awful? Would asking any of these questions make Stiles sound like a creepy lunatic?

"Okay, well, find a way to bottle that shit up," Isaac says, lacking all the sympathy Stiles needs, and claps him on the shoulder. "This is a company party, not an MMA fight. So. Reel it in."

"Fuck you," Stiles says. "I'm getting punch."

Dear lord, this is terrible. Stiles doesn’t want to see Peter right now—he’d mentally prepped himself to never see him again except for in his hateful fantasies and those sad moments that always seem to pop up right when he’s trying to fall asleep. The minute he sees him, everything will come back to Stiles, from memories of Peter naked in his bedroom to Peter bringing him to a drive-in to Peter making him breakfast in his kitchen. No, no, no, Stiles isn’t fucking doing this. What if Peter’s seeing someone new? What if he’s _brought_ that someone new here? That means Stiles will automatically be the loser of the night because he doesn’t have someone new, he’s not even _close_ , and how embarrassing is that? Who can he grab and demand to pretend to be his date? Jordan might be a good choice; Peter clearly made it obvious that he’s jealous of them so much as talking by the water cooler, so that might work.

He finds Jordan, who appears to be three eggnogs into the party by the time Stiles does, and agrees to dance with Stiles without much persuading. Not that it fucking matters, because Peter's not paying attention anyway. Every time Stiles sees the back of his head or a glimpse of his suit through the crowd, he's always engrossed in a conversation or helping himself to snacks or chatting with old coworkers. The only person who seems to take any notice of Stiles at all is Finstock, who walks by him, sees him dancing with Parrish, and gives him a dark, incredulous look that very clearly says _not again_.

“This is you trying to figure out how fast you can get fired, right?” Finstock asks, eyes wild, when he catches Stiles by the buffet later. “This is all on purpose, right? You're not actually this stupid, _right?_ ”

“I’m not actually this stupid,” Stiles says, but he’s not all that sure.

\--

Stiles leaves right when White Elephant starts and seeks solace on the balcony to escape all the madness that is gift-giving among colleagues. He gets himself a glass of wine from the bar and escapes for the fresh air.

There's no one else out here, which Stiles is grateful for. The last thing he's interested in right now is trading weird small talk with some IT guy he's never spoken to before. Away from all the hullabaloo going on indoors, it's actually pretty peaceful out here, and Stiles lays his elbows on the railing and looks out over the dark landscape. It seems like there's warehouse after company building after business tower stretching in front of him, too tall to see over where the neighborhoods are. Downtown Beacon Hills is nice if not a little rusty, and all in all, spending a little time out here by himself drinking wine and breathing fresh air isn't 

He wonders, without meaning to, if Peter's left already. Maybe he saw him dancing with Jordan and did the wise thing and skeedaddled out of here to go back into the hole he came out of. Either way, Stiles is glad he didn't have to see him and/or deal with him tonight.

"Hey."

So fucking much for that.

Stiles grits his teeth; he really wanted to fucking avoid this entire encounter. He never should've gone out here alone, although he somehow doubts that even being surrounded by a crowd of people while being in the middle of a breakdancing battle would stop Peter from talking to him. Peter is the kind of person who gets what he wants, and Stiles wishes he could hate that instead of admire it so much. 

Stiles turns around. Peter looks even better up close than he has from afar, all crisp lines and sleek hair, just like Stiles remembers.

"Hi," Stiles says, hands tight on his glass of wine. "You're here."

"I am."

"I didn't realize you would be."

Peter's mouth twitches. Stiles knows he's not doing this right, that he's not being very adult about this, but fuck it, he can't stand here and have a pleasant chat with someone who he still has trouble looking in the face.

"Why so hostile?" Peter asks, and then has the gall to step closer.

"I'm not," Stiles says. "I'm—this is just weird, that's all. You being here—it's weird."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. You don't work here anymore. Not sure why you'd come to this party."

"I was invited."

"Yeah," Stiles says, looking down at his glass, refusing to look anywhere else, swilling the wine aggressively back and forth. Maybe he is being a little hostile. He just wants Peter to take the fucking hint and leave him alone already.

"But you wish I wasn't invited," Peter says, filling in the gaps Stiles didn't say. "Isn't that right?"

"If you have to ask, do you need the fucking answer?" Stiles says. He looks out over the balcony, at the dark sky, at the cars far below rolling down the streets. "We didn't exactly leave things peachy between us when you left."

"When I left."

"Yes, when you left," Stiles says, nearly yells. Peter keeps coming closer, repeating things that don't mean anything, irritating Stiles up the fucking wall. "You know what—" Stiles turns around again, ready to get in Peter's face and give him the argument he was clearly looking for if he came out here searching for him, and in a split second, his wine goes sloshing out of his glass and lands on Peter's chest, staining his pristine white button down in an instant.

Stiles falls silent, mouth opening. Peter does too, looking down at his newly purple shirt that makes him look like he's just had a food fight in a vineyard.

"Shit," Stiles says. He puts his glass down on the balcony ledge, hand reaching out to—to do _something_ to fix the situation before he thinks better of it and pulls it back to his side.

"Payback for the cappuccino?" Peter asks. Stiles would laugh if he wasn't remembering that he's supposed to hate Peter.

"You—you should really change."

"Should I?” Peter says, thumb dabbing at the wine on his collar. “Wonderful observation.”

He looks ridiculous, and Stiles would feel happier about this prime humiliation if he didn’t now feel obligated to fix it. Peter looks like he just went head-to-head with a giant dark red marker.

“Do you, uh.” Stiles reaches forward, considering touching the stain, and then decides against it once more. Probably best not to be touching Peter at all. Or even be in touching distance. “Do you need a napkin?”

“What I _need_ is a new shirt,” Peter says, wiping his hands off on his sleeves.

“Okay. Fine. Fine, I know where you can get a new shirt,” Stiles says. He can’t believe he’s about to do this, but fine, he’ll do the big boy thing and put Peter in a decent top and then he’ll leave this goddamn disaster of an event and never deal with Peter again. So there’s that. “Come on.”

He grabs Peter’s wrist and drags him back in from the balcony, sticking close to the wall and sidestepping the happy partygoers clearly having a better evening than him. He tries not to feel too annoyed by them and their joyful laughter and ability to feel pleasure at a work event as he works his way over to the stairs, wondering exactly why everybody else gets punch and good conversation and he gets this—dealing with an annoying ex he really didn’t intend to ever see again.

The cheery holiday music stops once they reach the stairway, which fits Stiles’ mood just fine as he pulls Peter downstairs, each step echoing in the stairwell. All he wanted was one party. One fucking party where he didn’t have to think about Peter, and instead what he gets is this, which is the _exact opposite_ of not thinking about Peter. This is working with Peter, interacting with Peter, and watching wine soak through Peter’s shirt.

Fucking fuck. Why did he come?

They make it down to the third floor in complete silence even though Stiles’ tongue is burning with all the insults he’d love to let wing their way out of his mouth. He just focuses on holding Peter’s wrist just tightly enough to hurt and making his way through the cubicles to where Stiles’ desk is, passing by all of the Christmas decorations people who care more than him have put up around their computers. His own is completely bare of holiday festivity, and it’s only when he realizes just how sad that looks in comparison to everybody else’s that he gets irrationally angry at just what a funk Peter is responsible for putting him in.

Peter’s to blame for _so much_ wrong in Stiles’ life right now. He’s the reason Stiles is walking on eggshells around Finstock lest he spontaneously decides to fire him too, he’s the reason Stiles just wants to be in his sweatpants ninety percent of the time, and he’s the reason Stiles couldn’t even properly hit on anybody tonight without making a total fool of himself. He’s also the reason he’s now in his cubicle during an office party when he should be getting drunk and dancing inappropriately with his coworkers.

God, does he hate him.

He reaches under his desk, coming back out with his favorite shirt, salvaged after the cappuccino incident. It’s been folded there for a while, Stiles continuously forgetting to bring it home with home after Peter cleaned it for him.

“This?” Peter asks as Stiles hands it to him. “This is the spare shirt you keep in your desk? You still have this eyesore?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s my favorite shirt,” Stiles says. At least, it used to be, before looking at it failed to do anything but remind him of Peter, of Peter drycleaning it for him, of Peter wrapping it up all fancy-like in a gift box and leaving it on his desk as an apology. “Do you want my selfless offering or not?”

Peter snatches it out of Stiles’ hand. It’s deathly silent down here compared to the noise upstairs, not a single clicking mouse or ringing phone or clacking keyboard to fill the air, and it makes Stiles feel horribly aware of his every movement, of each inhale he’s breathing in. It doesn’t exactly get any easier when Peter starts untucking his stained shirt and goes about unbuttoning it, exposing a chest Stiles was once very familiar with—fuck, is Peter doing this on fucking purpose?

He swallows down on a very dry mouth as Peter shrugs off his shirt and lays it over the back of Stiles’ chair, leaving him half-naked and with wine damp on his chest hair and close enough to reach out and touch again, just like old times, and Stiles has to fight off his own reflexes not to do it. He turns away instead, trying to remember if he’s supposed to be angry or heartbroken or forgiving at this point.

“Stiles,” Peter says, voice softer than expected.

“Your chest is really annoying, do you know that?” Stiles says, still refusing to look. “I’m so—fuck. I’m really annoyed here.”

He wishes he hadn’t spilled his wine on Peter’s shirt, now more than ever, because he could really fucking go for a humongous helping of alcohol right now, no matter how dull the stuff the company sprang for is. He runs a hand through his hair, thinking that if he leaves right now, he can stop at the liquor store and become their favorite customer by spending his paycheck on quality booze and then enjoy the lot of it at home in peace.

“Stiles,” Peter says again.

“I think I’m just gonna go,” Stiles cuts in. “I’m gonna leave and let you go back to—to laying your moves on some other unsuspecting poor cubicle monkey that works here.”

A hand on his shoulder is wheeling him around and pushing him against the cubicle wall a second later, Peter crowding into his space and still so, so shirtless.

“For god’s sake, Stiles,” Peter growls. “I’ve been laying _my moves_ on no one but you all night. I’ve been watching _you_ all night. I’ve been trying to get _your attention_ all night.”

Stiles struggles against Peter’s hold even as his heart flares up at the words, but Peter holds onto him tightly, too tightly to break away from.

“And why’s that?”

“You’re smart enough to figure it out, Stiles,” Peter says.

“Yeah, well, maybe I need you to tell me!” Stiles says. “Maybe I’m getting some fucking mixed signals from you after you left me high and dry and hightailed it out of here!”

“As if that wasn’t the very thing you wanted me to do.”

“ _What?_ ”

“How stupid do you think I am?” Peter hisses, and by now, the grip he has on Stiles’ shoulder is starting to dig in just a little bit. “You think I didn’t hear the way you spoke about our relationship? How you wanted it to be kept a secret from every single person you knew? How dreadfully _ashamed_ of me you were?”

“That wasn’t—” Stiles shakes his head, heart thumping, but Peter interrupts him before he can try and pipe up.

“You went _out of your way_ to tell everyone that so much as got a whiff of our relationship that I didn’t mean anything to you. Your friends, Finstock, _Greenberg_. And you expected me to stick around? You expected me to think you cared?”

“I was completely in love with you, you jackass!”

The surprise on Peter’s face at that is probably what hurts the most because _fuck_. Fuck. He had no clue, not even an inkling that Stiles felt that way, and yeah, it’s probably Stiles’ fault. His head is pounding bit. After hearing Peter yell at him just now, he might be starting to realize that the blame lies with him too, that maybe it wasn’t a walk in the park for Peter to consistently have Stiles shovel their relationship under the table, to have Stiles pretend they weren’t anything real.

Of course they were something real. Of course Stiles didn’t want him to go.

Fuck. Was he really that terrible about all this? The awful part is that the more Stiles rewinds his brain and tries to filter through the memories, the more he comes across incriminating evidence that yes, Stiles may have gone about this all wrong. There were many instances in which Stiles straight-up admitted he was ashamed of Peter, and he certainly denied any and all real feelings his friends ever accused him of, and he wore sweatpants to dates to make it clear just how little he cared, and oh god, that night when they were caught by Greenberg and Stiles told him that he and Peter were nothing, didn’t matter at all, was Peter listening then? Is that why he left so suddenly, why he was so cold the next morning?

Peter’s hold on his shoulder loosens considerably, and it sweeps the leftover anger out of Stiles completely.

“You—are you completely insane?” Peter asks, taking a step back, face twisted into something less than attractive.

“No! Okay, fine, maybe, because I’ve been a total idiot about all of this, and yeah, as painful as it is to admit that to you, it’s true.” He reaches out to grab Peter’s arm, feeling hopelessly like he’s just fully ruined all of this. Hell, he might have been ruining it from the beginning. “I—I’ve been really stupid.”

“I’ll say,” Peter says.

“But you, you could’ve used your words too,” Stiles says. “I didn’t even know you were listening that night I was talking to Greenberg.”

"What was I supposed to say? That I overheard your tete-a-tete about how meaningless our relationship is?"

"I didn't _mean_ that," Stiles says. He didn't, not really, but it's like there was a part of himself—one he can't understand for the life of him anymore—that refused to let anyone else think differently. Maybe it had something to do with his pride, or his initial impressions of Peter, or maybe, just maybe, it was a side-effect that came with falling for such a douchebag so damn fast. Or maybe it was because it’s what he thought Peter wanted, that it was a last-ditch effort to stay as _casual_ as possible, just like he promised. "That's why I even asked you stay, you idiot."

"You asked me to keep being your fuck buddy."

"Yeah. But what I meant was, well." Stiles scrubs a hand over his face, realizing that this entire time, he's been articulating himself like a three-year-old with no working knowledge of the English language. He's been saying what he doesn't mean and never saying what he actually does and surprise, he's pretty sure all that's catching up with him now. "I want you, but not just for sex. And I think it took me off guard just how much I did want you, and I mean from the beginning here."

"I see."

Stiles sucks in a long breath. It occurs to him that he has no clue what it is that Peter wants. He could guess, but—well, better to not.

"And what about you?" Stiles asks, suddenly fearing the answer. What if all this is too far down the drain to dredge back up? What if Peter's moved on because Stiles has been too emotionally clogged to hold onto him?

"Stiles," Peter says, and then his hand is wrapping around Stiles' wrist. "Why do you think I came here tonight?"

"For the, uh. The punch?"

He shakes his head. "Guess again."

"For—oh!"

Peter doesn't let him guess again, not really, instead seizing Stiles' thigh and pulling his leg up to hitch around his waist and kissing him, kissing him so hard that Stiles is pressed hard against the cubicle wall again, the thing very nearly shaking under his aggressive ardency. Stiles can only roll with the punches and wrap his arms around Peter's shoulders, suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling of intense familiarity and happiness and _coming home_. He lets out a pathetic little sound, something crossed between a mewl and a moan, and Peter pulls away from his mouth to give him a second to breathe.

"Fuck, I missed you," Stiles says, so unbelievably glad that Peter is without a shirt right now, his hands needy on his naked back. "Like—embarrassing amounts. God, I really did."

"The sentiment's returned," Peter says against Stiles' neck, his lips relocating there and wasting no time sucking what has to be the filthiest hickey in the world into existence. The hand gripping Stiles' thigh slides higher up, and higher still, up until his thumb his flirting with his crotch. "You have no idea."

He lets out a nearly animalistic growl of impatience, the sound definitely giving Stiles a rough sketch of an idea, one enhanced when Peter roughly rolls his hips forward to push their cocks together through their layers of clothing—goddammit, why are they wearing so much clothing?

"We can't—we can't do this here," Stiles says. It's unlikely they'd be caught here when everyone’s upstairs, but still, he doesn't really want to risk a couple tipsy partygoers finding them fucking on his work desk. He's not on the clock, but still, he's pretty sure that's crossing a line of Things You're Allowed To Do At A Work Party.

"Where can we?" Peter asks. "Who's in my old office?"

"Some—some new guy. Deucalion Something." Stiles grins, digging his fingernails in between Peter's shoulder blades. "Pompous weirdo, but not bad looking."

"But not as good looking as me," Peter says, voice stiff.

"Of course not," Stiles promises, grin widening as Peter's hands get just a little tighter on his body. "Got any other locations in mind?"

"I could fuck you on Finstock's desk for all I care," Peter says. "I just need to fuck you. _Soon_."

“Is it weird that a part of me thinks that's a good idea?” Stiles shakes his head, a hysterical laugh leaving him. “Never mind. Let’s go to my place. Or your place. Or the nearest motel.”

They should really talk some more. Everything is still so fucking muddled, so unclear as to what happens next and where they’re going after this bout of hormones passes, and even with the rational, logical side of Stiles’ brain knowing this, he knows there's no way that either of them are heeding to something as ridiculous as _reason_ right now. Stiles can't speak for Peter, but he hasn't had sex in weeks, and he's ready for it. Speaking of—

“You been busy without me?” he asks.

Peter smirks, pushing his hips forward against Stiles’ in a slow, deliberate roll. “No,” he says. “I haven't.”

“You sure?” Stiles says, digging his nails into Peter's arms. “Handsome stud like you with the clever faux-mechanic moves?”

“Those moves,” Peter divulges, leaning in and nipping into Stiles’ bottom lip, “have been sitting in the garage, growing cobwebs, since we broke up.”

“Good,” Stiles says, filling up all the dead space between them and kissing him again, firmly so as to wordlessly make it clear that it's been the same for Stiles, that he hasn't been off gallivanting since Peter left.

He hitches a leg up over Peter's waist, a leg that Peter firmly holds in place by the thigh, and Stiles moans right into his mouth and pulls him closer until they're pressed flat against the cubicle wall, the structure of it wobbling a little under their pushy weight. God, Stiles had almost forgotten just how good Peter is at kissing, how good he is with his hands, how good he is with _everything_ , and if Stiles gets any hotter, he's just going to rip his pants off here and now and they can fuck right here in Stiles’ cubicle, screw his morals or consideration for any onlooking coworkers.

“Oh dear,” Greenberg says, burning that dream as quickly as it came.

Stiles is going to fucking murder this guy, bare hands and all. He wrenches himself away from Peter, breathless and worked up and hard enough for his cock to hammer nails into drywall, and looks over to where Greenberg is frozen in shock a few feet away, carrying a glass of punch.

“This is the third goddamn time you've done this to us,” Stiles gripes, no single part of himself interested in feeling any shame at this moment. “Do you have a fucking pager that goes off each time we do this or what?”

“Um,” Greenberg says, most eloquently.

“Sounds about right,” Peter says. “Merry Christmas to you, now move along.”

“My place,” Stiles says, frantic, once Greenberg follows directions and totters off. He seems a little drunk, which will probably work in their favor if Greenberg’s memory doesn't quite make it intact to tomorrow morning. “Let’s go to my place. Immediately. ASAP. Post haste. _Please_.”

“Yes.” Peter seizes his hand. “Let’s.”

\--

For arguably the first time in his life, Stiles is extremely angry that humankind hasn't invented an accessible mode of transportation yet that is as fast and convenient as teleportation.

It feels extremely important the entire time they're stuck in a car, at red lights, on long stretches of roads. Stiles just wants to get his hands on Peter; they've wasted enough time as it is. By the time they make it to Stiles’ apartment, Peter's hand on his thigh during the entire time really revving him up, he's all but panting in need.

“Did you happen to see me and Jordan dancing,” Stiles says as he flings his shoes off the moment the door shuts behind them, “earlier this evening at the party?”

“I did,” Peter says, and whether he's just impatient or the memory strikes a chord of possessive jealousy in him, Stiles doesn't complain in the least when Peter backs him up against the door, pushing a thigh between Stiles’ legs. He kisses him, hard and dirty, and Stiles winds his hands into his hair, combing the product out of it with his fingers. “Was that all for my benefit?”

“Thought it might piss you off,” Stiles confesses. “Get you to notice me.”

“Trust me,” Peter says, wasting no time rubbing his thigh against Stiles’ crotch and sucking a dark spot on Stiles’ neck right where not even the world’s tallest turtleneck can hide it. It’s the same spot he went to town on back in the office, and it’s still freshly sore when Peter latches his mouth over it, Stiles shivering at the sensation. “I noticed.”

“You didn't—oh—you took a while to come up to me.”

“I thought it was best to catch you alone,” Peter says. “I suspected that if I tried to approach you at any other time, your friends would've intervened on your behalf.”

Stiles snorts, settling his hands over Peter's hips. “They're not my fucking bouncers,” he says. He's pretty sure that if any intervening would’ve occurred, it wouldn't have been in an effort to keep Peter away from Stiles. More like the opposite.

“They certainly don't look the part,” Peter says. “But I know they're very loyal.” He bites down over the spot he's been mouthing to life, testing its sensitivity. Stiles gasps. “And I assume you've slandered me tremendously in front of them.”

“I'm way too mature for that,” Stiles says, chuckling breathlessly. Their conversation does remind him of something, though—Isaac's confession, the one in which he told Stiles he gave Peter a hideously inappropriate big brother speech at the bar. The one in which there was a weird threat of violence on Stiles’ behalf. “Listen,” Stiles says, wrestling his jacket off his arms. “Remember that night at the bar? You playing pool with Isaac?”

“I remember.”

He throws the jacket off, Peter's fingers immediately swooping in to work on Stiles’ shirt buttons. He's so expedient; Stiles is fucking smitten. “What he said to you that night,” he starts.

“It wasn't true?” Peter asks.

“No, no, it was. Well, maybe it wasn't, I have no clue what he told you,” Stiles admits.

“He told me he was going to bulldoze me if I hurt you,” Peter says.

“Dear god.”

“I think he was under the impression that I was going to cause you pain,” he adds. Peter's hands momentarily pause where they're busy unbuttoning. “Seems like he was right.”

“No,” Stiles says quickly. “We're just both really bad at communication.” It's almost funny, if it weren't so unbelievably stupid. He can't help but laugh anyway. “If he told you I was head over heels for you, he was right. He hit that nail right on the head.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. _Yes_ ,” Stiles says, ducking in to kiss Peter's neck, his ear, his jaw, overwhelmed with the hungry impulse to do so. His hands scramble at Peter's still thankfully bare chest while Peter shoves Stiles’ shirt off his shoulders. It’s a little sticky, still reeking of red wine, and when Stiles ducks down to lick between his pecs, he tastes it on his skin. “You didn't believe him, did you?”

“I would've preferred you telling me as much.”

“The bulldozer bit?” Stiles asks, a huff of a laugh slipping out of his breathless lungs. “Or the other stuff?”

“The bit where he told me you were very much infatuated in me,” Peter says. “That bit.”

“Ah.”

He's about to go ahead and say it, echo Isaac and tell Peter that yes, he is definitely very much infatuated in him, but before he can, Peter's grabbing him by the ass and lifting him off the ground and carrying him like he weighs nothing—why is that so incredibly hot—into Stiles’ bedroom, dropping him directly onto his sheets, do not pass Go, do not collect three hundred dollars, do not belabor the point.

It makes Stiles realize for a moment that this is going to happen. That they're going to have sex, and that it's going to mean something, and that even if it's minuscule, this time is going to be totally different from all the other times.

“Come here,” Stiles says, already panting, reaching for Peter’s chest to pull him down on top of him. His legs open for Peter’s form, pulling him in, and immediately Peter’s body blankets him so fucking perfectly that Stiles wonders why the hell he ever denied himself this, especially when Peter doesn’t miss a trick and starts kissing a slow, wet trail up his neck.

“Give me your hands,” Peter says, and when Stiles does, Peter grabs them by the wrists and presses him into the mattress, open and inviting, begging to be touched. He loves this, how easy it is for Peter to hold him down, maneuver him into place, have his way with him, and he lets out a sharp gasp when Peter’s mouth moves downward, licking over his nipple.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, arching upwards.

Peter doesn’t relent; he capitalizes on Stiles’ reaction and sucks, teeth nipping at his chest, tongue laving over his skin. It’s like he’s purposefully trying to bring Stiles to tears before even touching his cock, mouth working down Stiles’ ribs, his stomach, then stopping to pay attention to the line of his waist, tongue tracing downward, downward—

“Take ‘em off,” Stiles whines, lifting his hips impatiently. “Peter, please.”

“Mm,” Peter says, and then he fastens his teeth on the waistband of Stiles’ pants, tugging, teasing. “Ask nicely.”

“I _did_ ,” Stiles says. “Please, _please_ just take my fucking pants off.”

That’s apparently nice enough for Peter, who lets go of Stiles’ hands to unbutton his trousers. They’re such pretentious pants, the kind of annoying dress pants that have hard-to-work buttons that he only ever wears for weddings and posh parties, but Peter pulls them off in an instant, revealing his tented underwear that’s already suffered a bit from Stiles’ leaking cock.

“Those too,” Stiles says, starting to shimmy them down himself right before Peter slaps his hands away.

“That’s my job,” he chides. “Let me.”

“I would if you hurried up.”

Peter pushes Stiles down onto the mattress again by the shoulders, ducking in to kiss him slowly, thoroughly, easing some of the urgency out of Stiles’ blood. His touches are so strong, so deliberate, so purposeful, enough to make Stiles feel dizzy, drunk, and he chases Peter’s lips after he pulls away from the kiss. “Relax,” Peter tells him. “No need to hurry.”

Stiles nods, letting some of his impatience simmer away. He’s not sure why he’s so frantic—maybe because he hasn’t touched Peter in a while, or because everything has this weight behind it this time, a real meaning. Peter seems to have missed him too, but his reaction is manifesting differently, all of his movements and ministrations slow, drawn-out, careful, and Stiles lets himself succumb to it, letting Peter set the pace.

Peter resumes his work pulling Stiles’ underwear off, suckling kisses down his hipbone, down his thigh, all the way to his knee. The way he’s treating Stiles’ body, almost worshipfully, it feels like something of an apology. Stiles wants to make it clear that they’re both to blame here, that they’ve both been bone-headed idiots, but he can’t bring himself to interrupt when Peter’s sucking dark, possessive marks into the inside of Stiles’ thigh, his teeth almost painful where they’re digging into his skin.

“If you’re trying to make a statement,” Stiles says, watching a dark redness bloom to the top of his skin as Peter bites down on his leg, “no one’s going to see it.”

“I will,” Peter says, pressing his thumb into the mark, making Stiles shiver. “And you will.”

He doesn't speed up, no matter how much Stiles writhes and keens and silently begs with his body language alone, instead taking his time mapping out Stiles’ body with his tongue. He's acting as if he's never seen him like this before, touched him like this before, tasted his skin like this before, his eagerness as thorough as it would be if this were a first time for them. Peter moves up from Stiles’ leg to suckle spots to life on Stiles’ hip, his stomach, his ribs.

It's so—he's just being so meticulous. It feels almost like Peter didn't expect to ever be able to do this again and is now cataloguing it all to memory, unwilling to skip even an inch of skin just in case this is some strange fluke, just in case Stiles wants him out by morning.

Stiles won't, but he supposes Peter doesn't know that.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles says as Peter mouths over his waist, lips grazing over the ticklish spots. He winds his hands into Peter's hair, tugging just to make sure he's paying attention. “I'm sorry I made you feel like—you know. Like I didn't care.”

He looks up, sitting up just enough to catch sight of Peter's slightly surprised expression, like he never quite expected an apology to leave Stiles’ lips, least of all aimed at him. Stiles can't blame him; Peter is a righteous asshole, but this time around, Stiles is the one who has to say he's sorry.

“I did care,” he continues, and he forces himself to look Peter in the eye as he talks. _I love you_ , he thinks, dazed. “You know that, right?”

“I do now,” Peter says.

“I just felt like I shouldn't because I wasn't sure if you—you just played it so damn cool all the time, Peter, and I never had any clue if all you really wanted was casual sex.” He remembers months ago, sitting on Peter's couch, worrying if he was capable of pulling this off, of being nonchalant enough to have hot, emotionless sex with someone he was starting to like. Looking back, of course it wasn't going to fucking work. It's so damn _obvious_ that Stiles has to laugh. “I'm really bad at keeping things casual. Like, really, really bad. Even with someone as irritating as yourself.”

“You’re quite good at the back-handed compliments,” Peter says.

“Just come up here,” Stiles whines. “I really need to kiss you right now. Will you stop being difficult and just kiss me already?”

Peter does. He grabs Stiles’ cheeks—more roughly than he really has to, but Stiles doesn't complain—and surges up to kiss him, the feel of it a little needy and fierce. Stiles wraps his arms around him and sinks into the sensation of Peter's lean body on top of him, sharing warmth, pounding a rapid heartbeat against Stiles’ chest. He's such a good kisser, and Stiles has always known that, but he's being reminded of it again, just like he's being reminded of how satisfying it feels to hold onto him and rut up against him and kiss him back with all he's got. They weren't even apart for all that long, but it's like Stiles went into withdrawal, like he needs to make up for lost time and feed this craving he has for Peter, to have him on top of him, inside of him, all around him.

“You have to fuck me,” Stiles says into Peter’s mouth, cock already aching between them where it’s pressed up against Peter’s stomach. He tries to buck up against him for friction, breath hitching as Peter sees to that ache for him by wrapping his fist around Stiles’ length. “Please, please, I’ve missed it so fucking much.”

“Have you?” Peter murmurs, breath hot on Stiles’ jaw.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Stiles says. “Your dick in me, it’s so good.” The way it fills him up, how Peter fucks him without any hesitance, how Stiles can never keep quiet once he starts touching him. “I want it.”

“Not quite yet.”

Stiles whines, head hitting the pillow in impatience that’s frothing out of him at this point, and then Peter’s hand lets go of his cock to nudge against his entrance and Stiles’ whine gets considerably louder.

“I’m going to lick you open for me first,” Peter says, voice low, thumb rubbing against Stiles’ hole. “You good with that?”

“I—shit, holy shit, I’m very good with that,” Stiles says, nodding. He lifts his knees, making it easier for Peter. “One hundred percent.”

“Figured you would be.”

Peter leans down and wastes no time; he licks around Stiles’ rim, tongue tracing the muscle, curling his mouth around his entrance and sucking, leaving Stiles to fist the sheets and breathe through his nose. Peter’s stubble is rough against the skin there, leaving it tingling, and still Stiles pushes his hips forward to get closer to Peter’s mouth, to the heat of his tongue on his ass. He’s already so high-strung, what with having gone without this for so long, and he’s scared that he’s going to blow his load way too fast because Peter’s tongue is _so good at this_ and is clearly trying to drive Stiles to complete insanity.

And then Peter’s tongue is sliding into him, breaching him, moistening the way, opening him up just like he promised, hands spreading apart Stiles’ ass cheeks, pulling him close. His stubble almost burns where it’s pressed against Stiles’ skin, but it’s a thrilling feeling, creating an almost intoxicating pain, one that Stiles doesn’t mind all that much. He closes his eyes and drinks it all in, from the way Peter’s eating him out like he was born to do it to the way his hands are tight on Stiles’ thighs, pushing his legs apart.

He doesn’t stop until Stiles is trembling, until Peter’s completely succeeded in wetting him with his tongue and then some, and Stiles is a few mere seconds away from coming when Peter pulls away—first biting into the soft flesh of his thigh a few times—and rubs a thumb over Stiles’ hole.

“You’re close, aren’t you, Stiles?” Peter asks, and Stiles nods. “You’re not coming until my cock is inside you.”

Stiles feels another spike of heat hit him in the chest at that promise. “Kiss me,” Stiles says, hands reaching for Peter’s hair and tugging.

Peter doesn’t seem to mind the request, not one bit. He pushes their mouths together, their lips slick, and lets Stiles control the kiss and tug him close with a hand at the back of his neck. He pulls away only to suck in a breath—it’s like he’s been short on oxygen ever since he laid eyes on Peter tonight—and take in the sight in front of him: Peter, lips bitten red, eyes glazed, hair mussed out of that prim hairstyle he had it slicked back into for the party.

How could he have ever gone without this? Why was he convincing himself that he had to? It seems _insane_ that he had been denying himself this, that he had stood in the way of his own romance for so damn long. He would kick himself if he wasn’t currently otherwise occupied, so, so, so very occupied, and he arches up and licks over Peter’s chest, still tasting wine and salt and sweat. Not a bad combination, weirdly. Better than wine and cheese.

“Cleaning me up?” Peter asks, sounding amused, as he cups the back of Stiles’ head while Stiles licks broader stripes across his skin.

“You know what?” Stiles says, sucking a spot of his own onto Peter’s chest. He’s awfully proud of it when it pulls away and sees red mottling the surface in the shape of his own mouth. “I should throw wine at you more often.”

“If this is how it ends up, I don’t mind,” Peter says.

He can’t quite help himself after that. Long after he licks away any leftover wine, he doesn’t want to stop, especially when Peter curls a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and starts petting his scalp, rubbing it each time Stiles bites down somewhere just hard enough to leave a mark. He takes all the approving noises escaping Peter’s mouth as encouragement, finally just pushing Peter onto his back and heading down to take Peter’s cock into his mouth.

He tastes just as Stiles remembers. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to suck him down like he knows Peter likes, refusing to falter in the enthusiasm category, just a little desperate to feel Peter come in his mouth. It’s a bit of a catch, because he also wants Peter to come inside him, and sooner rather than later at that, but choosing between one or the other is a bit of an undecidable situation.

He can’t quite give up the blowjob just yet, though, not when he’s just started and getting refamilarizing himself with the feel of Peter’s hot cock in his mouth. Peter’s never been the type to play gently, not that Stiles minds, and he reminds Stiles of this with several bucks of his hips that feed his dick deeper into Stiles’ mouth, breaching his throat, controlling the pace. Stiles still remembers all the things Peter likes, and it seems like Peter still remembers all of Stiles’ favorite parts in bed too, whether it’s being rough or rubbing Stiles’ shoulders or letting him suck Peter off to the point of explosion, which most likely makes Peter’s list of favorite things as well.

“Thought you wanted me to fuck you,” Peter says, but he sounds pleasantly breathless.

“Are you seriously complaining right now?” Stiles asks, pulling off Peter's dick to talk. Peter's watching him closely with dark, intent eyes, gaze fixated on Stiles’ reddened, spit-slick lips.

“Not complaining,” Peter says.

“That’d be a first,” Stiles says, grinning, but he stops joking around when Peter pulls a little on his hair, reminding him to get back to work. Stiles shuts up, refocusing his attention to the cock still in front of him, drawing it into his mouth and alternating between his best tricks: soft, gentle suckling meant to tease, transitioning into relaxing his throat just enough to take the head into his throat, following up with slow stripes being licked up the sides. His expertise pays off, as Peter is shaking underneath him in minutes, pushing his length up into Stiles’ mouth, demanding more.

“Stiles,” Peter says, voice rough. “Enough.”

“Oh, enough, huh?” Stiles asks, inordinately pleased at just how much he's reduced Peter to a heaving chest and a white-knuckled grip. He wraps his hand around the base of Peter's cock, stroking. “You sure you're done?”

“Not with you,” Peter says. “But I’d very much like to fuck you right now.”

“You sure I'm not tempting you?”

Stiles can feel Peter swallow from where he has a hand flat on his hip. “Tempting me,” Peter repeats.

“Yeah. To come in my mouth, maybe,” Stiles suggests, absolutely _delighted_ from the way Peter reacts, all hitched breaths and taut muscles. “Yay or nay?”

“ _Later_ ,” Peter growls, and all but yanks Stiles closer with the strength of an extremely sexually repressed man, which Stiles actually takes a certain amount of relief from, since he's pretty sure someone with Peter's current amount of impatience hasn't gotten laid in the last few weeks since he and Stiles parted ways, and that’s—well, that’s nice. Maybe Peter tried and couldn’t stop picturing Stiles’ face and hearing Stiles’ moans so that quickly went to shit, and that mental image is oddly pleasant for Stiles, all right.

He pushes Stiles down onto the mattress, hard enough that the entire bed creaks and bounces with the movement, and stares Stiles down with wild, hungry eyes as he crouches over him.

“You want me to fuck you?” he asks, voice low.

“Yes,” Stiles says.

“Right now?” Peter asks. “Until you're screaming for me?”

“Fuck, _yes_. Sign me the fuck up.” And never, ever unsubscribe him from that offer.

“Tell me how much you want it,” Peter says. “I want to hear you tell me.”

Stiles thinks he's been showing it pretty well all evening long, especially since he's dropped pantaloons and gotten particularly frisky, but Stiles certainly doesn't mind begging. He slings a leg over Peter's back, dragging him close enough to feel his warmth, feel his heartbeat hammer through his chest. _I did that_ , Stiles thinks, and feels his own pulse swell.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says. “Now finish what you started. Come on.”

He even lifts up enough to reach for his bedside drawer, rummaging around in it with just enough coordination to grab the treasure he's in search of: his almost empty box of condoms (turns out he will have to replace that in a hurry after all, then) and the lube. He would even rip the condom open with his teeth if he weren't positive that would end up with lube dribbling in his mouth and the condom tearing and sexy points ultimately being deducted from the evening, so instead he shoves it into Peter's hands and lets him deal with it all.

“What a gentleman you are,” Peter mutters under his breath as Stiles does so, which Stiles smacks him across the chest for. “Such etiquette.”

“What, you wanted me to put it on for you?” Stiles says, refusing to divulge that he's so fucking wound up with anticipation by now that his fingers are shaking too much to do it anyway. “Want me to cut your meat for you too?”

“And a comedic gentleman, at that.”

Stiles smiles. He watches as Peter gets on his knees and rolls the condom on and ignores his watering mouth. The night is still very young, he supposes, and he can do whatever he’s thinking of doing later. “Oh yes,” he says. “Sleeping with me is the whole experience, really. Laughter included free of charge.”

“I'm not doing my job right if either of us are laughing.”

“Right now you're not doing much of any job.”

Peter gives him an all-teeth grin for that particular bit of cheek, then grabs him by the jaw and leans in to kiss the sass out of him. It's a very good kiss, the type where every possible component is involved, whether it's tongue or teeth or all of the above, and by the time Peter pulls away, Stiles is completely pliant beneath him, almost like overkneaded dough.

“I'm going to fuck you now, Stiles,” Peter says, and there shouldn't be anything sexy about announcing this sort of thing, but it's _Peter_ , so of course it's sexy. It's sexy and provocative and coy and brash and all the other things Peter is on an average day, and Stiles is totally, disastrously in love with him.

“This is different from all the other times, isn't it?” Stiles asks, holding on tight to Peter’s arms.

“Not for me,” Peter tells him.

Stiles’ entire face heats up at that, and he winds his arms around Peter’s shoulders to draw him close. His eyes are so fucking blue from this proximity, even with Peter’s pupils dilated as much as they are, and Stiles takes it all in: his parted lips, red from Stiles’ teeth, his stubbled jaw, probably scratching up Stiles’ cheeks all night with each kiss, and his fervent expression, like he never plans on letting Stiles up from this bed. Stiles’ doesn’t want to leave, not now, not in the near future or even the distant future, and he makes his clear by wrapping his legs around Peter and kissing him quickly, once, twice.

“So what you’re saying is,” Stiles says, a smile tickling him, “you’re going to be _making love_ to me?”

“You’re horrible,” Peter says, thumb sliding over the edge of Stiles’ mouth. “Stop talking.”

“Roger that,” Stiles repeats, nearly cut off as Peter kisses him again, harder this time.

It feels a little like sliding into home plate once Peter finally lines himself up and slides into Stiles, inch by inch. Stiles rolls with all of his movements, shifting his hips to get the best angles, not that it's necessary, because Peter grabs him by the waist and pistons in and finds the right spot all by himself anyway, leaving Stiles to let out noises suspiciously close to needy whines and try and keep from coming much too fast.

“So beautiful for me,” Peter says, and he says more, but Stiles misses most of it because Peter whispers it directly into Stiles’ collarbone, mouth hot over his skin. “So tight for me, Stiles.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, breathless and already losing his grip on words, reaching for Peter. “Keep going.”

Peter makes a noise, something that makes it clear that that's the only thing he's considering doing, and rocks forward into Stiles with a slightly more finessed rhythm than before. It never takes them long to find a good tempo, to follow a solid conversation with their bodies, and now is no different. They've done this so many times, in so many different places and positions and circumstances, and their bodies haven't forgotten any of that, falling straight back into an easy, almost _simplicity_ that just works. Stiles frames Peter's head in his hands and instantly, Peter twists toward him and kisses him, catching Stiles on a hard exhale, and he works open Stiles’ mouth until he's kissing him more deeply.

And then Peter pulls out and pushes back in just right and hits his prostate and Stiles gasps away from Peter's mouth, back arching up and body clinging to Peter, hands tight where they're holding on to Peter's shoulders. 

“Again,” Stiles demands. “Just like—do that again.”

“I know,” Peter grunts, annoyed, “how to fuck you, Stiles.”

Stiles’ mouth falls open on a laugh. “Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yes,” Peter says. “Like this.”

He demonstrates with a firm, unforgiving snap of his hips, and yes, _yes_ , that's exactly right, and Peter clearly knows because Stiles very loudly says so, even without meaning to.

Holy fuck, they've been idiots. They've knowingly gone without this despite both wanting it, wanting _each other_ , and maybe all his friends are right and Stiles really is a complete fool, because who wouldn't choose this if offered it? Peter leans forward just enough that Stiles’ cock starts sliding against Peter's stomach again, finding heat there, and suddenly Stiles is panting and moaning and sweating like crazy, backside damp against the incredibly warm sheets beneath him.

Somehow, Peter's thrusts continue to get faster, to pick up power and momentum. Peter is a fucking beast in the sack, one Stiles can almost nearly not keep up with, especially once Peter claims his lips again in short, messy, biting kisses that steal all the little air still left in Stiles’ lungs. He opens his eyes once Peter pulls away and finds that Peter looks positively wrecked, eyes drawn below to where he's watching himself slide in and out of Stiles, one hand slipping down Stiles’ hip to touch his stretched hole, feel where he's breaching him.

“It's unfair,” Stiles says, “how good you are at this.” Peter chuckles breathlessly like he doesn't quite fully grasp the extent of this praise, so Stiles adds, “I’ve always thought that, you know.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Peter advises. “But some of us are born with, ah. Natural talent.”

“I'm happy about that,” Stiles says. “Very, very happy.”

“You certainly look it,” Peter says, grinning, and how he can talk this coherently while his cock is dragging in and out of Stiles is truly a remarkable feat all on its own.

Stiles can hardly still concentrate, as it stands. There's a burning that's building up inside his midsection each time his hole seizes around Peter's dick as he pulls out, each time Peter moves his hands somewhere new and never where Stiles expects, each time he somehow finds the energy to fuck Stiles even harder. He can't quite trust himself not to sob with pleasure anymore, but it seems he's not the only one losing control of his vocal chords at this point, considering all the heavy groans coming out of Peter's mouth.

“Mine,” he’s saying into Stiles’ throat, sucking and biting more blood to the surface, and this hickey isn’t one he’ll be able to hide. He groans, tipping his head back to give Peter the go ahead. Whatever, he’ll wear turtlenecks. Or maybe he’ll just show off all these lovebites like a proud, debauched, sexually pleased pervert. “You’re mine, Stiles.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles breathes. “Yours.”

“No one else’s,” Peter says. “Tell me, Stiles.”

“Just you.”

Peter comes then, just as Stiles answers him and digs his fingernails into Peter’s ass cheeks, dragging him closer, and he shakes in Stiles’ arms for the length of his guttural moan, cock buried deep as it’ll go as he rides out his orgasm. Stiles is close, so close that he nearly weeps when Peter's thrusts taper off and eventually stop, legs clenched around Peter's sides in desperation.

“Don't worry,” Peter whispers to him as he pulls out. “I'm not done with you.”

And then he's working three of his fingers into Stiles’ stretched hole until Stiles is gasping, twisting the sheets under his hands as Peter twists and crooks and scissors his fingers like a pro, and in that moment of blind, electric pleasure, Stiles isn't even sure if Peter's just that good at sex or that good at sex _with Stiles_ , at knowing exactly what it is Stiles needs, wants, is very nearly sobbing for.

“Tell me what you want, Stiles,” Peter says, free hand suddenly pumping Stiles’ cock and whisking all the remaining air out of him. “Do you want to come?”

“Fuck yes, I want to come,” Stiles groans.

“And who's going to make you come?”

“ _You_.”

Peter drives his fingers in deeper, and Stiles can hear every noise, how the lube lets him slip in fast and easy, how Stiles’ hole clings to him. “Tell me the magic word,” he says right on Stiles’ ear.

“Please,” Stiles hardly manages to get out. Every part of him is on fire, overstimulated and simultaneously still wanting more, his body sweating and aching and crazy for Peter, never wanting to let him go again. It's like he's in overdrive, having gone without sizzling sex like this for so long and now having it unexpectedly back in his palm, better than ever, even better than he remembers it being. “ _Please_ , Peter, I need—I need—”

“Shh,” Peter says, lips on his jaw. “I know what you need.”

Then his fingers are pressing right against Stiles’ prostate, rubbing relentlessly, refusing to back down, and Stiles actually yells out loud a little once he comes, loud enough to get a note slipped under his door tomorrow about being more volume considerate to the neighbors, and he hardly even registers Peter’s mouth on his skin, kissing his shoulder, as he finishes. He seeks out Peter’s mouth subconsciously, hands sweaty where they’re trying to find purchase on Peter’s arms, and kisses him slowly, lethargically, thankfully.

“Still living?” Peter asks, pinching Stiles’ nipple. 

Stiles swats him away. “No,” he says. “You’ll probably go to jail. For my murder.”

“Ah.” Peter kisses him again, another thorough, careful kiss that leaves Stiles chasing Peter’s lips when he pulls away. “Fucked to death?”

“Sounds about right.”

Peter gives him one last kiss, this one biting into Stiles’ lower lip for a hot second, and then he’s getting up and heading for the bathroom. Stiles sucks in heavy breaths, trying to regulate his breathing as he vaguely listens to Peter walking around his apartment, flicking on the bathroom light, and he feels remarkably reminded of the night with all the paint, how Peter had known where everything was and Stiles had felt oddly comfortable having Peter help himself to whatever he needed before coming back to clean Stiles up, like they were a couple, like they really _mattered_. It makes Stiles wonder just exactly how blind he’s been this whole time, why he couldn’t piece together the signs, why he was fighting it all so violently. Stiles doesn’t even realize that Peter’s come back into the bedroom until he feels a cool wash cloth at his thigh, cleaning off his hole, wiping away the leftover lube. Stiles jolts, the shock of the cold surprising him,

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Stiles says.

“Can’t let you think I’m a nice guy,” Peter says, even though the hand cleaning Stiles’ skin is awfully gentle. “I have to keep up that asshole reputation.”

“Of course.”

Stiles hides his smile in the crook of his arm, draping it over his face while Peter gets back off the bed and drops off the wash cloth. It’s strangely heartwarming, realizing that Peter doesn’t even need to ask where anything is, from the laundry basket to the wash rags to anything at all, and by the time Peter comes back, Stiles pulls him down onto the bed beside him. 

"You're gonna stay, right?" Stiles asks, feeling woozy and pleasantly so but still fully aware that this is a question he has to put out there. "Not going anywhere?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Peter says, fingers traveling down Stiles' torso in a way that somehow toes the line between ticklish and lulling.

Stiles turns into his touch, wrapping himself around Peter in a way he never would've dreamed a few months ago but now feeling compelled to do so. Peter still smells like he remembers, still kisses like he remembers, still uses his hands like he remembers, and the fact that he actually gets to experience it again, that they didn't both fuck this up beyond the point of no return—he's both baffled and inclined to take back anything bad he's ever said about the universe in regards to how it treats him.

Maybe the world doesn't hate him nearly as much as he thought it did.

\--

He wakes up to the unbelievably shrill sound of a cell phone going off, the continuous vibration of it against the hard nightstand luring him out of a pleasant sleep he wasn't quite ready to shake off. He groans, murmurs something he intends to be intelligible but isn't, and pushes with half-asleep weakness against Peter's chest.

"Phone," he mumbles, pinching Peter's stomach. "Get the phone."

Peter stirs beneath him, then pushes aside Stiles' probing and poking hands. He slips out from underneath Stiles' body, which is hardly what Stiles wanted, but he does get that infernal ringing to stop, so you win some, you lose some.

"Hello?" Peter says, voice thick and groggy and doing things to Stiles' already somewhat awake morning wood. "What?" There's a moment where Stiles vaguely hears the faint noise of someone speaking on the other end of the line. "Oh. Yes, well. He's right here, but he's still very much dead to the world."

Stiles tries to pinch Peter's leg, fairly certain he's being gossiped about right now, but misses and gets the mattress cover instead.

"Yes, all right. I’ll pass on the message. Good to hear from you too."

"Who was calling at this inhumane hour?" Stiles mumbles into his pillow as Peter ends the call.

"Your friends."

"Why were my friends calling you?"

"They weren't. They were calling you."

Stiles' eyes shoot open. Well, shit. He's going to be eaten like fish in a piranha pool for this, but to be fair, this all just happened last night and Stiles can’t exactly be expected to text updates to his friends while he’s in the middle of some mind-smashing sex.

God, it really was mind-smashing. And crazy and unexpected and really damn good, and now Stiles has no clue what comes next. He's lying in bed now with Peter next to him, naked as can be, and that's not a foreign concept to him by any means, but last night he told Peter he’s in love with him, and that changes some things. At least, he told him that he _was_ in love with him. Still better than Peter's confessions, which are currently nonexistent.

What exactly does Peter want now? What is he looking for, and is it even remotely similar to what Stiles is looking for? He thinks he knows, but he knows better than to make assumptions at this point.

“Stop thinking so much,” Peter says.

“Huh?”

Peter’s hand touches the small of Stiles’ back, reminding Stiles that he’s so, so naked. When was the last time he was this naked with someone else? He realizes, pretty dryly, that it was probably with Peter.

“Stop thinking,” Peter says again, more slowly this time, his hand firm on the base of Stiles’ spine.

“I’m just—” Stiles exhales, rubbing between his eyebrows. “I’m trying to figure out what happens now. Forgive me for trying to put my thoughts together here.”

Peter’s silent. Stiles looks over at him, expecting everything but the smile on his face. Peter sits up, knocking the covers off himself, and stands up in all his naked glory. Stiles snaps his eyes away on instinct, almost like he’s not sure if he’s actually allowed to look, even if hereally, really wants to.

“Do you want to get breakfast?” Peter asks.

“What?”

“Let’s get breakfast,” Peter decides, pulling his underwear on. “You feel like pastries?”

“Uh. Sure.”

“All right. Then come on, get dressed.”

Peter throws a shirt at Stiles that nails him straight in the face, then follows up with his pants. It’s not even his own shirt, it’s Peter shirt, not that Stiles notices until he’s put it on and smells Peter’s body wash and realizes the fabric is hanging awfully loose on him, and once it’s on he’s reluctant to take it off because—well, it’s soft and maybe Stiles doesn’t mind wearing Peter’s clothes.

And then Peter is putting one of Stiles’ shirts on because his is still slung over Stiles’ work chair in the office, drenched in wine and probably smelling like a sad grape, and that’s a sight that dries up Stiles’ mouth almost instantly because even though raglans and hoodies are far from sexy, they somehow _are_ on Peter, especially because they’re _Stiles’_ and they’re on the complete opposite of the wardrobe spectrum when it comes to what Peter usually wears, and suddenly going out for breakfast sounds unbelievably stupid because what if Stiles tugs Peter back on top of him and they just stay in bed all day?

“Um,” Stiles says, swallowing. “Maybe we should—”

“Later,” Peter promises. He turns around, kneeling on the bed to give Stiles a quick kiss, and that’s when Stiles sees that he’s wearing the hoodie with Darth Vader on it and the text _WHO’S YOUR DADDY_ underneath. He grins into the kiss, effectively ending it. “What?” Peter asks.

“Nothing,” Stiles says, pushing the sheet off his hips. “Let’s go to breakfast.”

\--

They go back to the café they went to that night of the drycleaning adventures—Peter’s choice—which feels a little heavy-handed to Stiles as far as symbolism goes. Peter gets them coffee and cappuccinos and pastries that Stiles handpicks through the glass, settling on croissants and danishes, and then leads them straight over to the same table they sat at last time. If he’s trying to send a subliminal message, Stiles is not fucking amused.

“Same table, huh?” Stiles asks as they sit down. “What are you trying to say here?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re not trying to—I don’t know, bring back some old memories for me?”

“Memories?”

“Yeah. You know. Our first—” Stiles clears his throat. “We’ve been here before.”

Peter smiles. Stiles is kind of dazzled by it, and he wants to kiss that mouth, and he wants—he wants this to keep going. He wants Peter. He wants to keep Peter around. He feels like he has to express all this over again now that it’s daytime and no one’s naked anymore, but isn’t sure how to do slip that into a light conversation being had over breakfast pastries.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Peter says, popping the lid off his cappuccino to sprinkle sugar in. “Are you in love with me, Stiles?”

Stiles grips his cup just a little too tightly; a fair amount of coffee spills out onto the lid that he hurries to slurp up. Looks like Peter has no qualms slipping any of that into light conversation.

“Wow.”

“Go on. I can handle whatever it is you’re wanting to say.”

“You could tread a little more lightly, you know that?” Stiles says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

“You want me to tread on eggshells?”

“No. God, isn’t there ever a middle ground with you?” Stiles wants to laugh; all of this is ridiculous. Peter is ridiculous. The two of them together is _ridiculous_. “Fine. Yes. I love you. I’m in love with you.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“I am. You don’t get to argue with me on this. I love you,” Stiles says. “You drive me wild, like really wild, but I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long to say it.” He takes a deep breath. His lungs feel so incredibly empty. “You?”

“Same,” Peter says.

“ _Same?_ That’s all you have to say?” Stiles says, frustrated beyond belief. “I could throttle you.”

“You need me to spell it out for you?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Lay it all on the table for me.”

“I’m in love with you as well,” Peter says, very calmly, dipping the end of his croissant into his cappuccino. “Thought that was obvious.”

“Well, it’s not,” Stiles snaps. “When exactly did you make that obvious for me?”

Peter furrows hie eyebrows like Stiles _just hasn’t been paying attention_. “All the time.”

“Ah, yes. Was it when you reminded me that we weren’t even close to exclusive or when you told me to flirt with Jordan to my heart’s content or when you had no trouble leaving after your were fired?” Stiles shakes his head. Now isn’t the time for any of that. They’ve both been stupid, _so_ , so stupid. “You know what? Never mind. You love me?”

“I do.”

“And I love you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“So you want to be with me? For the long term?”

“I would like that.”

This is going way too well. Never did Stiles expect this to go so well, so smoothly. He was prepared for rejections, arguments, maybe even more sex in lieu of actually discussing anything concrete, but not everything clicking into place. Things with Peter are never easy. Unless Stiles is the one who’s been making this hard all along? Jesus fuck. He can’t handle that kind of revelation.

“So what comes next now?”

“Well.” Peter slides a piece of croissant into his mouth, crumbs flaking onto the table. “We finish eating breakfast. Then we go back to your place for round two.”

They lock eyes, Peter's somehow holding unspoken promises of sex and lazy blowjobs and lots of whipped cream. Stiles feels his pants get slightly tighter as a part of him reacts to that wordless implication more than it really should in a public place, and he considers, very seriously, asking Peter if he wants to go for a quickie in the restroom. Stiles reaches across the table, hooking two of his fingers under Peter’s, feeling inexplicably overwhelmed with emotion, emotion that he’s been smothering for too long and now can suddenly breathe freely.

Then the bell over the door jingles as it's pushed open and somebody says, “Well, isn't this sweet.”

Stiles’ head snaps upward, and there's Scott and Isaac, looking down at the two of them with shaking heads like they’re police officers who just caught petty criminals on the run.

“Isn't it sweet, Scotty?” Isaac says again. “Not that our formerly very good friend Stiles would've let us know. Not that he felt it necessary to keep us in the loop with his sex life.”

“Do you even hear yourself right now?” Stiles asks.

“Not that he kept us gruesomely informed of it back when he was having sex with this guy on a regular basis,” Isaac continues, undeterred. “Right?”

“Right,” Scott says, feeding into this madness.

“Good lord,” Stiles says. He realizes that he's still holding Peter's hand on the table, and then realizes, quite pleasantly, right afterward that there's no reason for him not to be able to that anymore. He squeezes Peter's fingers. “I didn't realize you guys needed the play-by-play.”

“A little heads-up would've been nice,” Isaac says.

“Yeah,” says Scott. “You left the party without a word last night. We were worried about you.” Scott's eyes flick over to Peter for a second, taking in the familiar hoodie he’s wearing. He seems to be valiantly fighting a smile down as he looks back to Stiles. “What happened here?”

“I think the dots are pretty easily connected,” Stiles says. “We reconciled.”

“We also had sex,” Peter adds in. “Do you need us to draw you a picture?”

“No,” Scott says very quickly. “No, that’s fine.”

“Budge over,” Isaac says, and then he's sliding into the booth next to Stiles, officially squashing that dream of having a peaceful and romantic breakfast with Peter as quickly as it came. He grabs Stiles’ coffee, helping himself to a few sips. “We sit around for weeks listening to you mope about this guy and what? You were gonna keep this lovely little reunion a secret?”

“It's not a secret,” Stiles says. “I was going to tell you.” He snatches his drink back. “You guys would've figured it out even I hadn't told you.”

“I think we're going to have to need apologies,” Isaac says. He looks to Scott for agreement, who has slipped into the booth next to Peter and dutifully nods. “Preferably in the shape of gift cards.”

“All right, I think you guys have been little shits enough, yes?”

Isaac knocks his shoulder into Stiles’. “No way. You owe us.”

“I owe you?”

“I was practically the one who got you two together,” Isaac says. “I'm the one who told Peter you were head over heels for him.”

“That was somehow a favor you did me?”

“ _Yes!_ ” Isaac insists. “Because god knows you’re too much of a chicken-shit to have ever done it. And then you would have sat around, moping, creeping through Peter’s Facebook page for the rest of your sorry little life.”

Stiles is going to slowly and carefully murder Isaac, and then dispose of his body in his kitchen sink’s garbage disposal.

“So yeah, I think we deserve gifts for saving you from a life of sad old bitterness and involuntary abstinence because it’s pretty clear Scott and I were the real masterminds behind this reunion.”

“Stiles,” Peter says very loudly. “How would you like to see my new office?”

“I’d love that,” Stiles says, already getting to his feet.

“Hey,” Isaac says. “We’re in the middle of a conversation here.”

“No, we absolutely aren't,” Stiles says, climbing over Isaac to get out of the booth. He ignores Isaac’s indignant sputters, catching Peter’s amused eyes for a quick second. What he wouldn't give to take back that moment that Peter just found out that Stiles has been lurking on his social media pages. “Toodles.”

Scott seizes Stiles’ sleeve before he can flee. “You’re telling us everything later,” he says. “Yeah?”

Of course they know he will. Stiles is horrible at keeping good news to himself, and besides, it’s not like he isn’t going to come home tonight to Scott and Isaac sitting, in wait, on his couch, demanding the narration of last night’s events, refusing to leave until they’ve been fed with all the details.

\--

Peter's new office is nice. Two broad windows, an expensive desk chair that leans in all the right places, and a shiny new computer with a matching shiny keyboard.

“I think I'm jealous,” Stiles says as he runs his finger along the space bar. Very smooth. “Think you could sweet talk management into letting me work here too?”

“I don't think I could sweet talk anybody into handing out three officious jobs at my request,” Peter says, “since I know perfectly well that Isaac and Scott are part of the package deal.”

“Ah, fuck ‘em,” Stiles says. He leans back in the desk chair, feeling the cushions melt against his body as he does so. “Hey, this is a nice chair.” He lets his eyebrows provocatively dance up at Peter. “You wanna fuck in it?”

As if on cue, the office door opens and a woman in a crisp pantsuit walks in with a file in hand.

“Oh, morning, Mr. Hale,” she says. “I was just dropping this off on your desk. Didn't think you'd be here on a Saturday.”

“I'm not normally. Just showing my boyfriend around.”

Peter's hand slides over Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing. Boyfriend. _Boyfriend_. Stiles’ stomach gives a funny little flop of fondness. So that's what that word sounds like leaving Peter's mouth in reference to him.

“How sweet,” she says as she hands Peter the papers. “Don't forget to show him the rooftop view, then.”

She smiles at Stiles before she leaves. Stiles turns to Peter, biting his cheeks to keep from beaming.

“I'm your boyfriend, huh?” he says. “Actual boyfriend? Not just what you say to people when they ask you who I am and you don't want to say I'm basically a live-in sex doll?”

Peter rolls his eyes and then grabs Stiles by the knees, expression exasperated but eyes deceivingly fond. “Do you have a problem with that?” he asks.

No. No, Stiles has the opposite of a problem with that, which is then made obvious with him blurring out like a thoughtless loon: “Move in with me.”

Stiles isn't even sure that he's just said those words aloud until Peter's stunned expression makes it obvious he did, which is crazy, because Stiles has spent years working on his filter and becoming a master of his own mouth and the things it says, and yet somehow, _somehow_ , completely senseless grenades like that one still find a way to elbow their way out. He's an idiot.

“Wow, ignore that,” Stiles says, panicking just a teensy bit. “That just came out without permission. No clue where that even came from, honestly, because I don't—I mean, I'm not—just ignore me, really.”

“You want to live with me?” Peter asks.

“Yes!” Stiles says, and there it goes again, with the total lack of common sense or verbal scrutiny. His mouth needs one of those security stations that are always at the airport, one that carefully examines and turns over each word he's considering about saying and confiscates anything dangerous, shady, or just plain dumb. “No. What I mean is—I didn't mean to say that, I swear.”

“Shame,” Peter says. “I would've said yes.”

“I—wait, seriously?”

Peter nods. “Yes, under one condition.” He leans in until their lips are brushing, briefly catching Siles’ in a short kiss. “You get rid of the pig.”

“Isaac stays, end of discussion.”

“The _bank_ , you idiot,” Peter clarifies. “The atrocious piggy bank you insist on carrying around as an adult man.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. He supposes it’s what he gets for falling for someone in the finance business. If he’s not careful, he can imagine his apartment turning into a highly organized, file-cabinet-infested nightmare.

“How about instead,” Stiles suggests, “I get rid of that shirt you hate.”

“Mm,” Peter says. “Perhaps it’s growing on me.”

“It’s growing on you?”

“Let’s just say… it has fond memories attached to it by now.”

Stiles looks away to try and hide the giant smile he can’t hold back, looking out the window instead as if to admire the view of yet another fascinating office building in spitting distance. As silly as it is, Stiles knows that his shirt stopped being _just a shirt_ the minute Peter cleaned it for him like some sort of form of drycleaning flirtation, the first step of courting in a long journey of miscommunication and good sex, and now, poetically enough, it’s brought them back together. Nothing in Stiles’ closet has ever been such a good wingman before.

“So you’ll move in?” Stiles asks, pushing himself in half circles in the chair as he awaits the answer.

“I will,” Peter replies, and for a moment, Stiles can imagine nothing but what his apartment might look like in a month—probably full of wine racks and cookbooks and lots and lots of fancy ties—but not just that, but his life too, how it’ll have changed. He has a feeling it’ll be for the better. “We’ve beaten around the bush long enough, haven’t we?”

Stiles doesn’t hide his smile this time. He reaches out, grabbing Peter’s sleeves, and pulls him close enough to tug on his tie and lean in for a kiss. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

\--

As expected, Stiles’ doormat is out of place when he comes home that evening after a long afternoon with Peter being shown the rooftop, strolling around the office, getting frisky in the supply closet—much bigger than the one in Stiles’ office—and replenishing any lost energy from that good-natured fun at a nearby restaurant. He lifts it with his shoe, and lo’n’behold, his extra key is missing.

“Hi guys, I’m home,” Stiles says loudly as he opens the door and finds, unshockingly, Scott and Isaac stretched out on his couch flipping through the TV channels. “Nice of you to let yourselves in.”

“We know you’re not really mad,” Isaac says immediately. “You just had sex. You’re in a good mood.”

God, is it annoying when Isaac is right about something. “Lucky guess,” Stiles says.

“So what’s the deal?” Scott asks, cutting straight to the chase.

“You kids giving it the old college try or what?”

Stiles looks down at his keys. Thinks about how he’ll soon be making a copy of his apartment key. How weirdly _right_ this all feels.

“We’re moving in together,” he says. “And I think he’s in love with me.”

There’s a strange, almost surreal silence. Then Isaac throws a shoe at him that hits Stiles smack in the chest.

“I can't fucking believe you,” Isaac shouts. “One night of being in the same room together and all this is fixed and you have groomsmen ties picked out? Why the fuck didn't we just lock both of you into a bathroom stall weeks ago and end all this?”

“Glad you're so happy for me, Isaac!” Stiles yells, matching Isaac’s level of volume. “Thanks for the support!”

“Of course we’re happy,” Scott insists, but he seems just as astonished as Isaac, eyes wide. “Just—wow.”

“How did any of this even happen?”

“What, you want the whole story?” Stiles swears, they're like bobbleheads on a dashboard, those two, the way they nod all frantically. “I spilled wine on him. We talked things out. Had sex. Now we're moving in together.”

“And this is—you're happy about this? You think this is a good idea?”

Good idea is a bit of an understatement, really. Overdue idea would probably be more accurate, given how god-awfully long it took them to stow away the pretenses and be honest and finally come to this conclusion. It's a fucking fantastic idea, and Stiles is excited and _ready_.

“Yes. Yeah. This is good.” This is really damn good.

He must be smiling like an idiot, because Scott is looking at him like he's a seven-year-old boy talking about giving a Valentine's Day card to a crush. Even Isaac looks like someone stroked his heartstrings a bit, although most of that expression just seems to be weary relief that this has finally happened and Stiles will be wearing less ratty pajamas all hours of the day from here on out and will no longer be needing sad bagels.

“Okay, well. We want more details.”

“You want _more_?”

“Yes!” Scott says, patting the armchair across from them. “Come on.”

Stiles sighs like he minds, heading over to the proffered seat. He doesn't, really, not one iota, but that's only because telling this story just got one thousand times more enjoyable since it went from Weird, Confusing, Miserable Ending and was upgraded to Deliriously Happy Ending.

\--

Life goes on. Except remarkably better than before.

It’s crazy just how easy it is to be in a good mood when you’re a great relationship with lots of sex, have good if not annoying friends, and don’t have to fear Facebook anymore.

Peter moves in in about a week, and only that late because he takes that long just to move over all his—frankly, excessive—shiny shoes and blazers and file folders. Stiles actually appreciates his massive workload then, if only because it provides him a consistent, bulletproof excuse as to why he can’t help Peter move all his heavy boxes. It isn't until Peter starts suggesting that they throw away some of Stiles’ stuff to make room for Peter's that Stiles suddenly, miraculously, can take time off from his packed, packed work schedule and put his laptop away.

A few days later, all of Peter's pots and pans are in Stiles’ previously empty kitchen cupboards, Peter's toiletries have staged a small hostile invasion on Stiles’ in the bathroom, and the bedroom closet is so full it's practically threatening to burst forth and break the door off its hinges. Oh, and Stiles’ shoes are no longer being stored in the oven anymore and the whole peeing-in-the-shower thing has become a daily debate.

“Wow,” Stiles says as he comes home one evening to a somewhat startling picture: the DVR full of Cooking Channel documentaries and Nigella Lawson specials, the fridge decorated with pictures of Peter on various luxurious vacations, and Peter standing over the stove while the luscious smell of freshly baking pot pie fills the air. Stiles throws his keys aside and shrugs off his jacket. “I think— _think_ —we aren't so good at this casual thing anymore.”

“Weren't all that casual to begin with,” Peter says. He withdraws a wooden spoon from a pot. “Here, come taste this.”

Stiles does, then gives Peter a hello kiss because _he can_ and because he's been thinking about it all day. Man, does he miss having sex at work sometimes.

“We were, at the start,” Stiles insists. Okay, things kind of flew into the deep end once all the dates and rampant jealousy and paint nights began, but before then, everything was suuuuper nonchalant.

“Yes, and whose fault is that?”

“Yours,” Stiles says solemnly.

“Not quite,” Peter says, pulling the wooden spoon back out of Stiles’ hand and resuming his stirring. It's good, an almost zesty pesto that Stiles is already looking forward to having on his plate. “Stiles, what you may’ve failed to realize is that I would've been perfectly fine dating you from the getgo.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Peter says. “I only suggested casual sex because you had a distinct deer-in-the-headlights look about you when you seemed to think I wanted much more from you.”

“You wanted to date me from the beginning,” Stiles repeats, feeling himself go slightly catatonic. “You assumed I was too much of a scaredy-cat for anything else.” Peter's nodding. “What about your job?”

“I would've quit,” Peter says, all too breezily, like he was even considering this. Like—like this was all somehow an option and Stiles didn't even know about it and it's like someone gave him a scantron that didn't even have all the available bubbles on it and he's just now finding out.

“You would've quit?”

“It was just a job,” Peter says.

“You seriously—you would’ve had a serious relationship with me since the start,” Stiles says again, as if recapping will somehow improve how utterly ridiculous he feels. Peter nods. “Can we just.” Stiles feels like he needs to go on Amazon _right now_ and gift himself a World’s Dumbest Moron mug. “Can we pretend that none of that is true so I can feel less like a complete romantic failure. You really would’ve quit?”

“Sure. The job wasn’t that wonderful,” Peter tells him. “I’ve had better. Clearly I would have more.”

“You’ve—wait a moment, you’ve had better jobs than the one where you got to have sex with _this hot piece of ass_?” Stiles asks, waving his hands down his torso.

Peter spares him a glance, licking sauce off of his thumb. “I never had to wait for business hours for that.”

Stiles wonders just how weak he is that that is turning him on a bit. He leans in and wraps an arm around Peter’s middle, kissing the back of his neck, nose brushing over the back of Peter’s head where his hair is soft. “So is now fair game?” He runs his fingers down Peter’s waist, playing with the fabric of his shirt. “A little after hours hanky panky?”

“Stiles, I’m cooking.”

“Yeah, something’s cooking in my pants, too,” Stiles murmurs, moving to unbutton Peter’s pants.

“Stiles,” Peter says, stilling Stiles’ hand by grabbing his wrist. “Your father’s going to be here soon.”

Stiles lets go of Peter’s zipper as if electrocuted. “What? Why?”

“I invited him,” Peter says, buttoning his jeans back up, and maybe that’s for the better, because Stiles’ boner just flew straight away like a shocked bird. “Figured he might want to get to know the man his son’s living with beyond your slanderous accounts of me.”

Stiles whips around and looks at the apartment, slightly panicked. There’s a tube of lube by the couch and Stiles’ pants are still sprawled over the coffee table from yesterday’s evening adventure, and if his father so much as _looks_ at the evidence that Stiles had sex and has been having sex here, he’s going to implode immediately.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Stiles says, instantly trying his best to haphazardly clean. He’s already mentally planning his payback in the form of inviting Derek over when Peter’s taking a bubble bath or in the middle of a Cupcake Wars marathon. “You’re a total monster.”

He's still throwing anything that is or could be mistaken for a sex toy into the safety of their bedroom—and dear lord, how is the phrase _their bedroom_ managing to still give him such silly, sappy heart palpitations—when the doorbell rings and Stiles’ father arrives. Peter answers it, and that's when Stiles first notices that Peter has a dish towel slung over his shoulder like a handsome Sous Chef, and the sheriff hugs him and asks how he's doing and doesn't even start the evening off by asking how Peter tricked Stiles into letting him move in, which was partly what Stiles was expecting. Okay, _exactly_ what he was expecting.

“Hey, son,” he says when he sees Stiles. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, knowing he must look horribly red in the face. “Just excited.”

They all get settled at the dining room table and Peter serves them pot pie and pasta and breadsticks and what can only be described as _charming someone’s father_ food, which just so happens to be the right way to get to the sheriff’s heart.

“So how come he isn’t driving you crazy at work anymore, Stiles?” the sheriff asks halfway into his second plate. If there’s dessert, he might just leave half in love with Peter.

“Oh, well,” Stiles starts, briefly meeting Peter’s amused eyes. “We’re not actually working together anymore.”

“How’d that happen?”

Stiles gives himself a chance to think by quickly shoveling another forkful of food in his mouth. They were having too much sex at work, got caught, Peter got fired, they reconnected at a party—literally none of that is appropriate to tell his father and expect the outcome to resonate well. He chews as slowly as possible.

“I thought it would be more appropriate if we kept our personal lives and work lives separate,” Peter steps in, smooth as ever. His ankle hooks around Stiles’ foot under the table.

The sheriff seems impressed. “So you quit?” he asks. “To date my son?”

Peter grins, and the sheriff doesn’t know Peter well enough to recognize that as a mischievous, cunning grin that usually means he’s just gotten rid of all of the hazelnut creamer or taken away the good toilet paper Stiles coveted so much. But Stiles knows. _Stiles knows_.

“That’s just the kind of person I am,” Peter says, voice angelic, and it might raise some concerns about the sheriff’s police skills that he seems to believe him.

“Wow,” he says, turning to Stiles. “Stiles, I think you might’ve gotten lucky here with this one.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “I think we both might’ve gotten lucky.”

Stiles can’t really argue with him there. He kind of wants to, because arguing with Peter is in his blood, but he won’t. This time. Instead he just leans into the curve of Peter’s ankle around his foot and smiles.

\--

“So I’m guessing you got that assistant,” Isaac says as Stiles sits on the edge of Isaac’s desk and does his best to throw balls of scrap paper into the trashcan at the edge of the cubicle. “Considering you have the time to dick around here sitting on all my important shit.”

“Words like _important_ and _shit_ don’t really go together,” Stiles says. He throws another wad of paper and misses horribly. So much for that basketball career. “And no, I don’t have one yet.”

“When is Finstock giving you one?”

“No clue.”

“So shouldn’t you be working away? At your own desk?”

Stiles tosses another. That one is a _hard_ miss. “I’m leaving soon. Peter’s taking me out to lunch.”

“He’s picking you up?” Isaac asks. He makes jokes about Stiles _dicking around_ , but Stiles can see Isaac playing Mahjong clear as day. Isaac is nothing if not the master of hypocrisy. “He’s still allowed on the premises?”

“Very funny. You know he was here for the holiday party.”

“Yeah, and then got to second base with you on the third floor. How many times can you two do that before it’s public indecency?”

Stiles frowns. “How do you even know about that?”

“The walls have ears,” Isaac says. He’s abandoned his computer by now to watch Stiles repeatedly miss the trash can, a small pile of paper heaping up next to it. “And Greenberg told everybody.”

“That guy is a fucking Chatty Cathy. And way more than he looks.” Stiles grabs something that may or may not be an important business report, crumples it up in his hand, and tries an underhanded throw this time. It hits the rim of the trashcan and then, amazingly, ricochets in. “What exactly did he tell you?”

“Enough,” Isaac says dryly.

Stiles checks his watch. “Listen, I’m leaving for lunch any minute,” he says, jumping off of Isaac’s desk. “Could you do me a favor and get that folder full of spreadsheets we were talking about this morning back to my desk before I forget? I left it in the corner office.”

Isaac looks uncharacteristically uncomfortable for a moment. He scratches the corner of his jaw.

“What's wrong?” Stiles asks.

“Nothing,” Isaac says. “It’s just.”

“What?”

“The corner office is spooky, all right?” Isaac says. “Did you know that some lady who used to do the accounting for this place used to sit there? And then _died_ there?”

Stiles stares at Isaac for a solid minute, waiting for him to crumble. He doesn’t, which in turn, causes Stiles to.

“You fucker,” Isaac grumbles, digging his knuckles into Stiles’ stomach until he stops laughing. He’s deadly serious about this which only makes it all the funnier for Stiles. “I’m serious. Management’s been trying to hush it up ever since she died. I heard it from Danny.”

“Yeah, and who do you think told Danny?”

Isaac’s eyebrows push together into a disgruntled line. “I don’t know.”

“I started that rumor, dumbass,” Stiles says. “Me and Peter did.”

“Why the fuck would you need to—” Isaac’s confusion rapidly transitions into a complete lack of amusement. “No, Stiles. You didn’t.”

“Of course we did.”

“I’m fucking petrified of going in there because Danny tells me some old lady who had a stroke is haunting the place and—and you’ve just been fucking there for months?” Isaac asks. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m not apologizing, if that’s what you’re looking for,” Stiles says, rolling his shoulders. “I think I saved you from seeing stuff you didn’t ever want to see by making up that rumor, so you’re welcome. And I’m talking _scarier_ than ghosts.”

“You’re unbelievable, Stiles.”

Stiles beams. “Thanks. Peter thinks so too.”

“Dear lord,” Isaac mutters under his breath. “I think he’s been a bad influence on you, you know that?”

“I can live with that,” Stiles says. He checks his watch again, and right on time, Stiles’ phone buzzes with a message from Peter. _I’m by the elevator. You ready?_ it says. “I got to go. Don’t let the ghost from the corner office haunt you.”

Isaac throws a wad of paper of his own this time, and his aim is much better than Stiles’, as it lands right on Stiles’ head before bouncing off. There’s a good chance Stiles is going to come back to his desk later to a virus installed on his computer courtesy of Isaac for payback, but he can worry about that later—right now he gets to go have lunch somewhere nice and feel Peter up under the table.

He jogs his way over to the elevator, his appetite rearing its head and ready to dive headfirst into a hamburger, and right before he makes it, he overhears a familiar voice.

“—don’t work here anymore, you know.”

“Yes, I do know.”

“Strange how much you feel the need to hang out here then.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Is karma never going to fucking catch up with Jackson Whittemore? Stiles rounds the corner, and yup, there’s Jackson power-posing like he’s a king looking down on his unworthy subject while Peter crosses his arms and stares right back.

“Hey,” Stiles says, biting back the urge to point at Jackson and ask Peter _is this punk bothering you?_ Stiles can only imagine how much it’s cheesing Jackson off that his grand plot to ruin Stiles’ life didn’t work. “Ready to go?”

“You bet,” Peter says, sliding a hand to the small of Stiles’ back, which sends exactly the kind of subtle message Stiles was hoping it would. Jackson’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second, because being the asshole he is, Stiles is almost positive Jackson had been hoping he had broken them up and murdered Stiles’ sex-life for good. “Lovely as always, Jackson.”

Finstock puts an end to that warm and cozy exchange when he rounds the corner, eyes wide with frantic annoyance as always. They land on Jackson, and he lets out a frustrated huff. “There you are, Jackson,” he says. “Don't you ever check your emails anymore? My office.”

He snaps his fingers and takes off down the hall, leaving Jackson to spare Stiles and Peter one last glance—not his default smug look of douchiness this time, though—before following him. Stiles watches him walk away and dreams of all the things he could do to a man like Jackson while his back is turned.

“God. If that douchebag gets promoted, I swear to god.”

“He isn’t,” Peter says, leading him over to the elevator.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks. A smile creeps up his mouth as they ride down to the first floor and he catches a twitch in Peter’s cheek, one that’s very much hiding something juicy. “Do you know something? It sounds like you know something.”

“You’re practically boiling over with glee.”

“Tell me what you know,” Stiles demands, his smile growing into a fully-fledged grin as he digs his fingers into Peter’s stomach. “Come on, I need to know.”

“Oh, you _need_ to know?”

“Don't tease me, Peter.”

Peter smirks. “Let’s just say that it's frowned upon to spend company money on personal expenses,” he says. “Like cologne. Or expensive restaurant dinners. Or premium gas.”

“You're kidding me.”

“And perhaps I sent all this evidence Finstock’s way before I left,” Peter says. “And put it purposefully on the top of the pile of budget paperwork I left for him.”

“You are a clever, evil, wonderful man,” Stiles says. “I fucking love you.”

“I thought you might respond this resplendently,” Peter says. “Your uncontained schadenfreude is just charming.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, because I'm going to be gloating about this for _days_.”

“Hold on,” Peter says as they step out of the elevator. “There's more.”

“You also intercepted his medical records and found out his penis is all weird?”

Peter's eyebrows lift up. He looks at Stiles like he's a disturbing, disturbing boy, which he supposes is true in many ways. “I know nothing about the state of Jackson's penis,” he says slowly, like he's not sure if he should let Stiles down gently with this kind of news. “But I do know that Finstock won't fire him for this.”

“Whaaaaat?”

“No, no, he has too many connections,” Peter says. “However, he will be getting seriously demoted. And I believe there's one assistant position that just opened in the department, yes?”

Stiles’ mouth drops open. Holy _shit_. Holy fucking shit, this is what being on karma’s good side feels like, then. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever experienced this before in his life. Ever.

“This is even better than I could've imagined,” he breathes, amazed. “Jackson Whittemore is going to be my assistant?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Oh lord, _the possibilities_. The beauty in this world is just—it's just limitless. Everything is amazing and as it should be and Stiles is going to have _so much fun with this_. So rarely does karma manage to put everything in its place exactly where it belongs without accidentally spilling a plate of drama along the way.

Not that drama wasn’t spilled, but, well. It worked out in the end.

Stiles grins, grabbing Peter’s shoulders to pull him in for a quick, grateful kiss. The man who unseats Jackson from his throne of annoying Stiles on a daily basis deserves at least that. “So where are we going for lunch?”

“I could go for a cappuccino,” Peter says. “You buying?”

“No fucking way,” Stiles says, still grinning.

He grabs Peter’s hand as they walk to the car. He doesn’t let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OF COURSE IT WAS GOING TO END HAPPILY. OF COURSE!!!
> 
> (By the way, it has become one of my favorite things to make Peter very unabashedly into Stiles and Stiles very commitment-phobic along the way. I truly, truly think that's how it would be.)


End file.
